


into the unknown

by Naolin



Category: League of Legends
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cunnilingus, F/M, Porn With Plot, Vaginal Sex, politics politics politics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:55:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 39,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27170698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naolin/pseuds/Naolin
Summary: Lux chooses Sylas.
Relationships: Luxanna "Lux" Crownguard/Sylas
Comments: 22
Kudos: 111





	into the unknown

**Author's Note:**

> 1) I feel like this is 'league lore, but I dragged it out so it's boring now, and everyone's characterization was bumped just a little to the left to justify the plot changes. Also it's horny.' Anyway, sorry. My love of manipulative shitty Sylas/Lux somehow led to me writing an unacceptably long fic that largely lacks that dynamic. How… How did I fuck up so bad…? Someone please write shitty, toxic Sylas/Lux, I want it so badly. This isn't a joke.
> 
> 2) "Did you name this fic after a song from Frozen II?" L,, listen,,,, ,,,,,,,,
> 
> 3) If you only clicked on this for smut, you're valid and I respect you. It's all in the 2nd half of the fic. If you clicked on this for any kind of fight-scene, war scene, or politics that get any deeper than a shallow backdrop for me wanting to write romance, please leave. You're still valid and I still respect you, but you won't find what you want here.

The first time Lux meets the prince of Demacia, all she wants to do is hide behind her mother's legs. She misses the days when she was allowed that luxury, but she is twelve years old now, and mother says it's time to grow up. Mother says that a Crownguard can never hide, even if they try.

"The light will always shine on us," she always says, and it is the only phrase Lux has ever heard that puts the _fear_ of light in her heart where wonder should be. (Lux will realize, someday, that it is not about the words so much as it is the way her mother's eyes track her, like she is unpredictable prey. The way these words are said more like a threat or a warning than a comfort.)

The royal castle is Demacia epitomized into one massive structure. Flags are furled out at every corner, all beautiful sky-blue and shining gold trim. White spires adorn the grounds, statues of goddesses and royalty stand on equal footing atop tall pedestals, and the intricate, swirling designs flourish the walls like ivy. Images of wings and feathers, crowns and gems, ivy and flowers, all shine where they are sculpted into the walls and floors in gold.

The ceilings are painted with beautiful murals. Lux's neck aches from the way she cranes her head back down every hall and through every room. Her mother has to set a warning palm on her back, right between her shoulder blades, to snap her out of her inspired daze.

The prince is her brother's age; a good decade older than Lux. That makes him a _proper_ adult, different from the way that she is expected to be 'grown up.' She would hardly think him youthful at all, were he not the splitting image of his father beside him, minus the beard and wrinkles. Minus the shoulders sagging with the weight of responsibility.

Jarvan IV smiles at her when their eyes meet, after she has curtsied and introduced herself. It feels like they are putting on a play together. Polite greetings and formal small talk for an audience. Lux's mind has to race to keep up, sprinting through etiquette training like she's ascending a stairway, step by step. Find interests, _feign_ interest, flatter, and follow.

It's exhausting, and yet routine. Tiring, but mind-numbing. Her teacher always talks as if it's some great act of focus to keep a conversation flourishing _properly,_ but to Lux it's second nature. It's _boring_. But even walking up a smoothly paved path is exhausting if it's a steep enough hill.

She knows better than to say any of this out loud. Instead, when Jarvan is finished giving what sounds like a carefully rehearsed spiel about the castle history, what Lux says is a sweet: "That sounds _fascinating_."

When he shoots her a wry smile, Lux knows that it means: _I know that it isn't._

He's following a script the same way she is. She doesn't blame him.

But neither of them can break it, and so he keeps talking, his father's palm pressed flat against his back.

***

He finds her later, in the portrait gallery. She is not looking at the dignified paintings of his lineage that decorate the walls. She is standing in the center of the room with her head tipped back, staring at the mural across the ceiling.

Rays of light break through backlit clouds. Lux is wondering how a painter could do it — how they could make the sky look so dark and so light all at once. Grey enough to have contrast with the white of the glow, but still clearly ablaze where the sunlight hits it. How do they make the lights so radiant? How do they make what's already so bright _brighter_?

"You like art?" Jarvan asks her. The curtains are open wide around floor-to-ceiling windows, and the sun casts his shadow over her when he steps up to her side.

She looks around the room before she looks at him. They are alone. His smile strikes her as apologetic; maybe for earlier.

Lux considers. "I like art lessons."

"Really?" Jarvan asks, sounding only vaguely like he is just humoring her. "I was relieved when father let me stop taking them."

It's nice of him to try to talk to her more earnestly in private; where they can admit to the things they don't like.

"What lessons _do_ you like?" She asks. She is resentful that asking him his interests is a deviation from the script — that a question so sincere and personal skirts the line of impolite.

"Sword lessons, mostly. And history lessons."

"I'm not any good at history," Lux admits. "I can't remember the names and dates. But I do like to know the things that happened."

"I suppose because it's my job to know who has had an impact on the kingdom. I like knowing that I'll be among those names, one day." Jarvan's eyes trace over the portraits. "If I expect anyone to look back at the good I've done and remember me, then I owe it to those of the past to remember them."

Something about this doesn't sit right with Lux. Does the person need to be remembered more than the act? Do people do good just to be remembered for it? She decides to swallow this thought, and asks instead: "What are you going to do?"

"I don't know yet," he says, easily. This time he is the one to crane his head back. "Something good. Something to make Demacia a better place for everyone."

"Demacia is already perfect," Lux says, almost reflexively. She is not sure she believes it, no matter how many times it's been said to her.

Jarvan nods. "It is," he says. She cannot tell if he is on or off his script. "But I'm still going to make things better."

***

When she is nineteen years old, they are engaged.

Arranged by her aunt, or her brother, or the both of them, conspiring against her. Out of love, she knows, but that voice inside her head that asks _questions_ has only gotten louder with age.

Who writes these scripts that encase them like prison walls? Who is it that is trapped by them, and who gets to live outside?

Sometimes she wonders this on a much greater scale than socialite politics of family and nobility. She wonders what god gave her magic, but let her live in a kingdom that despises it.

History books state things in such simplistic terms, but history has never been her forte. She is better, now, at remembering names and dates. But she cannot _understand_ it.

Laws of the world — or the kingdom, though it may as well be the world — are determined by such miniscule things. Such _petty,_ trivial things. A royal man's irrational fear, lashing out, or trauma. They ripple outward into the now growing exponentially more entrenched in the culture itself in a way that is almost… Infuriating.

Lux thinks of this as she makes her way down dungeon halls.

What god gave Sylas magic, and let him be born in this kingdom that fears it?

What god let them meet?

Sylas's cell is a long way down the hall from where the guards are stationed. Lux counts the torches on the walls as she passes them, until finally she stands before the door. Through the window, she can see the shape of him; his blurry silhouette, sitting in the small circular alcove in the prison wall with his chains draping over him.

Everything in Demacia is so beautiful, Lux thinks.

There is a world of difference between castle halls and prison cells, but even the window into Sylas's cage is ornately decorated. A golden border around glass. Harsher cut than what you see elsewhere — less flowery swirls. But still ornamental, with bold lines intersecting at the corners and smooth bevels.

It is surreal to think that someone made this. At some point, someone was hired to design pretty borders for prison cell windows.

Or at least, for the outside of them.

Lux opens the door and steps into the cell with ease. She stole the keys a week ago to unlock it, and no one has noticed, even though she has long-since returned them. In the end, it's just an extra precaution. Sylas's chains keep him from being able to venture more than halfway across the room.

Sylas looks up at her, and his lips turn up into a smile. "Luxanna." He does not draw closer. She wonders if he thinks she is still afraid of him after all these months.

"I brought you more books," she says, approaching him instead.

She knows she _should_ still be afraid. Some small part of her is.

He could overpower her in an instant, if he wanted to. He is stronger than her, and she knows that despite his smiles, there is a fury that doesn't leave his eyes, even when he looks at her. It spills from his mouth sometimes, too. Usually calm, but not always. Usually her friend, but not always.

Even so, she approaches until she is close enough to hold the book out for him.

"Thank you, as always," he says.

When he takes the book, his fingers touch hers. Not a light brush, but a purposeful one. He does not draw away for a long moment, just resting there as if she had offered her hand to hold.

Lux feels her fingertips tingle; she draws her hands back to her sides and flexes them awkwardly. If he is any bit as touch-starved as she is, it doesn't show on his face.

"Of course," Lux says, distractedly. "It's barbaric that they give you nothing to keep yourself sane. Nothing to stimulate you."

"Part of the punishment," he says. He does not pay any mind to her embarrassment, and props the book open on his lap, resting it against his thigh. He thumbs past the first couple of pages, and for a moment Lux thinks she will lose his attention to the book completely. Then he glances back up at her. "It gets to some more than others."

Sometimes Lux feels she will go mad in her own head simply laying down for sleep at night.

To face that solitude, that restless boredom only interrupted by the inescapable desolation of her own spiraling thoughts, for more than just a handful of hours? It sounds like a death sentence. A death sentence would almost be _better_ , if it meant an end to staring at plain walls and feeling time slip by. Second by second. Minute by minute. Hour by hour. Days to months to _years_ , and just this brief, visceral thought almost brings Lux to tears.

Sylas's voice breaks her from the spiraling thought. "Little Light? What's wrong?"

"I just… Can't bear the thought of you being here for so long. I don't know how you stand it."

He is quiet. His eyes are icy blue when she meets them; his lips pulled thin with his own bitterness. She knows the answer: he stands it because he has no choice. Or — he isn't standing it at all.

She feels stupid, but can't keep herself from admitting in a whisper: "I often think of a world where this never happened to you. One where you enjoyed your youth without being locked away."

He scoffs. "You think I enjoyed life before this cell? Of course anyone would want freedom. I want mine. But I was a mage in hiding, hunting my own. There was no joy in that life, either. The world before imprisonment was not any kinder."

"This is the part I take no joy in imagining," Lux says. She isn't so naïve that her fantasies are utopian. At least, not usually. Not unless it is very, very late at night, and she has talked herself into allowing the self-indulgent daydreams in a thousand different ways. "But I do wonder about your thoughts. If you hadn't wound up here, who you would have become."

"I would be like you," Sylas says, his tone far too light for the harshness of his words. "A coward who questions the world and seethes at its injustices, yet does nothing but carry them out."

Lux winces; she'd known she would regret admitting this as soon as the words left her lips. At least they had come to the same conclusion.

She says, quiet, "I don't have the freedom to fight. My family decides everything for me."

"You're here."

"And if I'm caught I'll be—"

"—Be _what?_ " He interrupts, his voice loud, but controlled. The brief silence after is striking; it bounces off the walls of the cell like an empty cavern. Sylas sounds impatient: "You'll be punished? How so? Scolded? _Lectured?_ You'll lose some social standing that was never earned in your lifetime to begin with?"

"My family knows about me," Lux mutters. "I could be handed over to the mageseekers."

"You're a mage from a family of nobility and coin. Not a violent crime to your name. You'd be exiled, not imprisoned."

She doesn't know why this fills her with dread and fury all at once.

As if she doesn't relish each opportunity she has to leave the kingdom. As if she hasn't wanted to run away from home all her life.

Even so, she can't bear the thought of banishment. Demacia is her home, it is _hers_.

"I'm engaged," Lux blurts out, the moment that thought crosses her mind. Demacia is _hers_.

Sylas only arches an eyebrow, and in an instant it is as if they had not been in an argument at all. "Oh?"

"To prince Jarvan IV."

The words leave her mouth with a careful firmness, to block out her own doubt. To block out the ache in her chest of telling this to Sylas. She knows she would be stupid to want what she cannot have.

Sylas is studying her, brow furrowed and a calculating look on his face.

"You don't look happy."

His eyes don't leave hers, and she can't bring herself to break their shared gaze.

"There are things I'm happy about," Lux says, eventually. "But I wish that I could at least choose who to marry for myself."

"You have a suitor in mind?" Sylas asks, his voice deceptively playful.

Lux can't meet his eyes any longer. She forces herself not to turn her head and focuses intently on the tattoo on his shoulder. "Of course not."

"Then what difference does it make?" Suddenly, he is cold. The way he swings between tones always gives Lux whiplash. Half the time he is intent on pretending they are old friends speaking in comfort, but that pretense slips away moment to moment. Now he looks annoyed by her answer, and for a moment Lux almost allows herself to think— "—If you've nothing better to do, why not be a political pawn?"

Lux exhales.

"Read your book," she chides him, refusing to fall prey to her own naive desires.

At least he lets the moment pass just as easily as her. Fires burning bright and burning out, equally abrupt.

"Would you like to read with me?"

It's dizzying to keep up with him. Lux feels her brain stutter. "Yes?" She asks, intending to prompt him into repeating his question.

Instead he drops one leg off of the alcove and straightens up in his seat. He holds the book out in one hand, leaving a pointed space. Lux looks from it, to his face, and back. She waits for him to laugh, to make fun of her, but all he does is tilt his head, beckoning her.

It would be easy to kill her with those chains. She knows that it would.

But neither this, nor the pounding of her heart stop her from taking a seat in front of him. She feels his leg pressing firm against the curve of her hip. He touches her shoulder, gently guiding her to lean into him until her back is against his chest.

She is grateful to be facing away, but can feel that the tips of her ears are as red as her cheeks.

It means nothing to Sylas, she reminds herself. If it meant something, he would not simply hold the book in front of them both.

Lux can barely process the words on the page. She is only aware of the rise and fall of his chest and how his warmth seeps into her through her blouse. She isn't even comfortable, but yet a part of her is so deeply soothed that she feels as if she could fall asleep right here.

She never lets herself touch anyone. Not with her affliction. Not with her glow, that even now sometimes resurfaces against her will.

Despite it all, she is absorbed in the book before she realizes, reading by the light that shines from her palm. An easy, useful magic. Harmless and helpful.

They hold conversation between every page, about petricite and magic, and about walls and chains.

***

She does not forget the sensation of her body leaned against his.

She does not forget her own daydreams of a different world. Of a different Sylas.

But even those are still nothing more than a different cage.

She does not forget her own betrothal.

***

Sylas is stealing her magic.

He's taking it from her, leaching it like blood each time they touch and storing it away in his chains. Maybe he meant to hide it from her or maybe he didn't; perhaps he wanted to push the boundary without words. Wanted to make her the one to bring it up first if she wanted to say no.

He started nearly ten visits ago, and she hasn't said no yet.

The problem is: her frustration with him refuses to turn to fury. How could it? How could she condemn a man for wanting a taste of what brings her so much warmth? Something that the world had no right to deny him with those shackles?

When she was young she had sometimes wished to be normal. Wished to be free of her magic. But she knows now that it was never _really_ what she wanted. What she had wanted was the promise of acceptance. The comfort of no longer holding onto something that others would slap from her hands if they could, no matter how much it would hurt her to drop it.

Sylas accepts her. Sylas does not just let her hold light in her palms — he encourages her to, shows her how to control it. Borrows it for himself, like magic is not something despicable, but something to be coveted.

She likes to think that their friendship isn't just because she's the only person he ever sees besides the guards who occasionally make their rounds. Isn't just because she brings him books and likes to listen to him talk about the ways the world should work, and the formulas of magic and petricite.

Sylas accepts her, and he steals her magic. He teaches her to use it, and he takes it.

She churns this over in her mind as she walks down the long hallway, her heels clacking on the marble floors with each step. Lost in thought, she watches the swirling patterns of dulled silver and off-white pass underfoot.

Is it stealing or sharing? They haven't discussed it; she hasn't given him permission. She won't dismiss that he does this without giving her any choice, she won't pretend that's alright. But she is acutely aware that he teaches her the way it works — he does not leave her in the dark without the means to understand what is happening.

She does not have any less magic for herself, at the end of the day. It's as if she is the waterfall and he is the lake at the bottom. The flow of her waters don't dry by any action of his.

Only a higher power could stop her magic, Lux thinks. She does not know what this higher power would have to be. A god or goddess, perhaps. And if it is a god or a goddess that grants or denies magic: hadn't they wanted _him_ to have it? It's only men who have taken it away.

Is that a god's doing, too?

She is so lost in thought that she walks directly into Jarvan's chest. Her face bumps against the expensive silks of his shirt before she stumbles back a step.

His hands rise to steady her, but hover inches over her arms as if he cannot quite bring himself to touch. Lux thinks of how easily Sylas touches her, and can't discern the motivations of either man.

Before she even has the chance to apologize, Jarvan is laughing lightly to put her at ease. Behind him, four guards all avert their eyes, and Lux imagines that it is to offer some modicum of privacy, or perhaps to spare her from the embarrassment.

The prince is dressed as nicely as she is. No, surely nicer.

All this fuss, Lux thinks, for a tea date between an engaged couple. Formalwear as if they're attending a ball before an audience, guards as if they could come under siege. Chaperones. Reinforcers of the rules. Witnesses to keep them on-script.

"Luxanna," Jarvan greets her, with bow of his head.

When he smiles at her, it is plain and simple, and Lux thinks again of all her etiquette lessons. She knows he's had them too, but his don't teach the same things as hers. He doesn't know how to seem shy, how to imply affection where there is none. He doesn't know how to use flattery, how to court romance without opening his heart, and so: he does neither.

He does not love her. But he is fond of her, he does _care_ for her.

He loves Demacia. This should be enough.

It isn't. It isn't, and _now_ the fury wells up in her so easily. _Now,_ she has such an easy time letting her mind fall into the deep waves of spite and bitterness. It isn't Sylas that plunges her under the surface when he reaches for what she wants to give him — but _Jarvan,_ simply for smiling at her.

She tries to be logical, tries to remind herself that the same possessiveness she allows herself over Demacia is what she sees and loves in Jarvan. It is not a character flaw that should make her angry, but a trait that she should admire, should relate to.

She needs to reply. She can see him questioning why she hasn't. Even the guards are glancing at her from the edges of their sight.

"M-Milord," she manages, and takes some relief in knowing her nerves will be misattributed to their engagement.

Maybe that's what her nerves _are_ about.

She expects him to offer his arm, but he does not, and instead she finds herself focused on the space between them as they walk side by side. The guards trail behind them both, following them down endless castle halls.

The clarity of her footsteps is lost to the small crowd, suddenly a shuffling, awful cacophony.

***

"Bend your light," Sylas murmurs. His voice breaks through the darkness of Lux's closed eyes, like it's the only thing that exists.

"I don't know how," she hears herself say. The admission does not embarrass her, does not frighten her. It just is what it is. This is the comfort of Sylas's acceptance of her.

If he loves her for her magic, he loves her in spite of how clumsily she wields it.

No, not loves. She begins to think: _Why did I think loves —_ but she knows why. She knows why, and her face flushes, and her concentration breaks. The darkness splits apart to reveal the dim light of Sylas's prison cell.

He is seated at the edge of the alcove in the wall again, one leg drawn to his chest with his arms linked loose around it. He looks at her inquisitively, unaware of what had broken her focus.

"You never had the chance to learn," he offers, some attempt at soothing her. He must think she's embarrassed over her magic.

"Nothing so advanced," she replies, and takes in a deep breath to steady herself.

"Funny. When you're a greater threat to them without mastery than with."

Lux frowns. "I'm no threat."

"Perhaps not on purpose."

"And what does _that_ mean?"

Sylas looks at her, expression unreadable. Lux scans his face; when her eyes meet his they flit away quickly. She can't discern what he's thinking.

Eventually, he breaks into a low laugh, but Lux gets the impression it's a change of subject. "Don't worry. Just practice. Just learn."

"Does it help you?" She asks. When he doesn't answer, doesn't seem to know _how_ to answer, she clarifies: "The better I am with my magic. The stronger it is. Is it better when you take it?"

There's no surprise on his face at being called out. Just the consideration of her question. "No. That isn't how it works. Your own growth is for yourself and for those around you."

"You hate those around me," she points out, but feels her cheeks warming again. She knows he doesn't mean anything by it. She knows the limits of his friendship. She's never felt so foolishly _young_ about matters of the heart.

But, well, she had never felt as if she loved anyone before.

A part of her marvels at the realization that with all of the nobles and knights that surround her — the literal _prince_ of her kingdom set to marry her in a matter of weeks — the man she loves is… _This_.

A criminal. With greasy hair and bags under his unkind eyes. He may have been handsome once, but in prison his appearance has been a low priority. He may have even been compassionate once, but that's been eroded away as well.

She is half of the mind that were it not for this cell, he wouldn't spare her a second glance. She is also half of the mind that thinking such things are, in themselves, still a kind of self indulgence that she should not waste her time with.

Sylas takes a long moment to answer, all while Lux just stares at him. Eventually, he says, "But _you_ don't."

A small smile takes over her lips. She can't help it.

He rolls his eyes at her, as if irritated by the acknowledgment of even the slightest kindness in himself.

He looks away from her and says, voice deceptively flat, "Those with strong magic aren't inherently dangerous. Not if they know how to use it. But when you use a magic you don't know — when you've never been given the chance to learn control. That's when you're dangerous. They've set up the situation they're afraid of."

"Self-fulfilling prophecy," Lux murmurs.

His gaze slices back to her. "So I won't let it happen to you."

"It won't," she says, unsure if she is defending her honor or offering comfort.

There is a moment of uncomfortable silence. Lux shifts her weight; they've gotten off track from her impromptu magic lessons. Reading books together often turns to lessons when the two of them get curious to test theories.

Eventually Lux pierces the quiet and asks, "Can you control my magic well?"

He smirks. "Like it belongs to me."

Maybe she should be offended. "What, um," she has to stop, swallowing thickly. "What do you use it for?"

His eyes are cautious, now. She thinks he would track her across the room if she moved, but feels frozen in place beneath his stare.

"For light when it's dark. For warmth when it's cold."

Lux cannot tell if she is disappointed or not.

She cannot tell if he is joking when he adds, "For breaking free."

"Breaking free," she repeats, distantly.

A tension overtakes the prison cell. Lux feels as if she is waiting for him to say something to alleviate it, but what could he say?

What does he want from her?

"I could—" she begins. The silence is heavy but her breath feels uncomfortably light. The air in the cell is still, and she is overcome with a clarity that she doesn't understand, like ice-water in her lungs, as she whispers, "You don't need to do it alone."

***

In a grassy field, Lux lays out her lunch.

It feels surreal to sit down for a picnic at a time like this. This isn't one of her ventures past the walls, only to clear her mind beneath the open sky. It isn't a mission from the Illuminators, either.

This is treason. Under a blue sky and with clean air cooling her lungs — with a small picnic spread and her usual traveling clothes on — she is plotting treason.

She needs to find somewhere for Sylas to hide, after they break him out from prison.

It needs to be somewhere hidden, _truly_ hidden. Somewhere he can stay until it's safe to travel farther away. The impulse is to run far and fast, but Lux knows better. You hide in the shadows until you're passed by. You leave when they think you're already gone. That's how you escape.

He's _going_ to be free.

This thought makes her heart soar — then crash back down with every beat.

It _isn't_ freedom to have to run. Lux may have fantasized about running away her whole life, but she knows those daydreams aren't truly wish-fulfillment. Those visions of _freedom_ aren't freedom. They're a wish that doesn't dare to get too big.

Lux wants adventure, but not at the cost of her home. Lux does not want to run into the arms of another kingdom.

She just wants to be embraced by—

"—light?"

Lux dims the surprised pulse of light that bursts from her palms like she is slamming a door shut.

But if there was any fear of being seen by the wrong eyes, it's washed away in an instant. She looks up in time to see the dissipating light of a stranger's magic. Flickering gold fades away like dispersing fireflies, and a boy drops down into the grass in front of her.

He looks to be her age. Blue eyes and blonde hair. She would think Demacian, perhaps, but there's no secrecy in his magic. Lux is still not the greatest at concealing her own or even sensing it in others, but it's written all over this boy's face. Swirling blues like rolling ocean waves, shifting on his cheeks in a way that is impossible for tattoos to replicate without mana pulsing through them.

He hardly pays her any mind. His eyes pass over her, then move to the horizon as he turns around in place. He's looking for something, and Lux takes a bite of her sandwich as she watches him with a vague sort of curiosity.

Eventually, he drops down to sit beside her, as if this is the most natural thing in the world.

"What a brat," he mutters under his breath.

The entire encounter is baffling. Lux defaults to being polite. "Can I help you?"

He leans his weight back on his arms, and this time he looks over her for a much longer moment. "Uh… You — maybe?"

For some reason it takes him a moment to find his words. As if he had been prepared to talk to her until he actually got a good look at her. He shakes his head as if to clear it.

"Maybe," he repeats. "I'm looking for… My… Travel companion? I guess? Little kid, looks about… I don't know, eight? She's got crazy long hair, crazy colors in it, and crazy colored eyes."

Lux raises an eyebrow. "I haven't seen anyone but you in hours. And I've come from the West of here. From the city."

The boy hums. Then lays down in the grass, hands behind his head as a pillow. "Well, she'll find her way back."

Lux peers over him, frowning. "You can't leave a child unattended in the wilderness."

He tilts his head, meeting her gaze with a curious look that strikes her as deceptively casual. "Is it dangerous out here? This close to the city?"

Lux thinks of the nursery rhymes she grew up on. Warnings to children of the demons in the dark. She does not know how to convey that they are true without sounding vaguely paranoid, and so she focuses on something else.

"She's a child," Lux reiterates.

For some reason, the boy looks a bit disappointed. His gaze moves from her face to the sky.

"Debatable. Anyway, her magic's stronger than mine," the boy says with an easy shrug. "Plus, you're supposed to stay in one place when you're lost, right?"

"The _child_ is supposed to stay in one place while their _guardian_ finds them."

"Like I said."

Lux's frown deepens. She doesn't have the time, but still finds herself offering; "I'll help you search for her."

"She's fine," the boy says, and there's a certainty on his face, now. Something about his eyes as they meet hers is piercing, less naturally playful than a moment ago. She believes him when he says, soothing, "Relax. She doesn't go far. Can't, even."

There's only so much she can push her way into someone else's business, Lux supposes. Nomads must know more about the world beyond the walls than she does. She sighs.

"Think about it like this," the boy says. "The best chance of finding her is sticking by the food. She's like a wild animal, she'll smell it and come running."

He winks, and Lux recoils without meaning to.

At least this only makes him laugh openly, his eyes scrunching up. It's easy to laugh with him, and almost nonsensically, Lux offers him half of her sandwich when the moment passes.

He swings himself back upright and gives her a nod in thanks.

It's nice to eat lunch with someone. Lux relishes the moment. Even if he is a stranger, even if the moment means nothing to him — to her it is kinship with a mage. She reminds herself that mages live fulfilling lives, out here. They can.

Outside of the walls, Lux can be anyone, even if the moment is brief. They are both just travelers. Sharing a lunch and enjoying the nice weather. Blue skies, and some light conversation.

The world should be so simple.

But even in the back of her mind, Lux is filing these details away. This isn't far enough from the city. There are others nearby. Others who could find Sylas, who could be found by Mageseekers. Perhaps not detained, when they already live as if in exile, but questioned. Even with the shared mana in their veins, Lux knows she can't count on strangers to protect Sylas as if he were their own. It's not enough.

"So," the boy says. "Whatcha out here lookin' for?"

She tries not to tense. This feels like a trap. "What makes you think I'm looking for something?"

He had struck her as so laid back. Maybe he's more perceptive than he seems.

"What else would you be out here for?"

Maybe not.

"Just exploring," Lux deflects. She tries to sound as playful as he does. "Searching for secrets."

The boy is quiet. When she looks his way, there's a smirk curling his lips, and she doesn't entirely understand why.

"Us too," he says.

"What sort?"

He hums. "It's hard to explain. Keys and locked doors, I guess."

"Keys and locked doors," Lux repeats.

The boy just raises a hand and waves vaguely in the air. "Yeah. That kind of thing. What about you?"

She considers asking him to clarify, but decides better of it. It still takes her a long moment to respond, carefully mulling over just how honest to be with him.

She settles on murmuring "Hideaways," averting her gaze from him as if her eyes could give it all away. Who she is, who she is promised to, and despite those things, what she has promised to _do._

"Secret places, huh?" He asks. "Then you've come to the right man."

She refrains from pointing out that he came to her. "You know somewhere?"

Lux does not get her hopes up. She cannot trust a stranger, even if he is a mage. Even if she wants to. Not with Sylas's life. The risk is too much. But maybe it could give her a better idea of where to look. What to look _for._

"Are you on the run?" He asks. He does not sound overly sympathetic, just curious. "From mageseekers or something?"

"Or something," Lux says.

When she looks his way in the long silence, he is watching her critically. Maybe he is wondering the same thing she is: how much to trust. How much to give away.

"Who are you?" He asks, as if he knows that it's a loaded question. Perhaps her clothes give her away as nobility — someone that question would mean something to.

"I'm someone who will be chased and searched for," is all she will concede to him. "One should introduce himself before asking the name of another."

This question takes him time to answer, too. She can't criticize.

It's only because she can tell that he is being truthful when he answers that she understands — that in his pause, he had been considering lying. But he says, "Ezreal," and she believes him.

She offers a small smile, almost conspiratorial for the way they are dancing around one another. "What other name did you consider giving me?"

"Jarro Lightfeather."

She's startled that he answered so plainly. The name sounds vaguely familiar, but she can't place why.

"But you're a mage," Ezreal says. His eyes are the same soothing blue as the sky above as he stares upwards. "A Demacian one who 'came from the city.' So I figure you're probably really tired of lies."

She feels lighter when she exhales, like she is pushing all the discomfort and suspicion from her lungs. "I am."

"Then I'll tell you about a good hiding spot," he says, simply. Like it's nothing.

"Why?" She asks, her voice cracking.

Ezreal shrugs. "Because you look like you're on the verge of breaking. That's when it's best to run. Least I can do is make it easier for you. Besides, not like it puts me out any."

***

He tells her of a cavern. A winding thing that was once used for mining ore, and now lays dormant. Too much magic in the crystals that grow inside the walls for Demacia to keep at it — too little for any other kingdom to take interest.

There have been many cave-ins since then. Whether they were a backlash against the pickaxes that chipped away at the walls or just from old age, it has rearranged its intestines off course from any map.

It's dangerous, Ezreal tells her. The deeper you go, the less likely to you are to be followed. The deeper you go, the less likely you are to get back out.

Lux likes to tell herself that she isn't prone to rash decisions. So she accepts the information with gratitude, and accepts the crumpled map he gives her as payment for lunch, but she knows she needs to see for herself.

When Ezreal has left her, she follows the map. It takes well into the evening to find the caverns.

The mouth is nearly hidden by a large boulder and by hanging vines. Moss has overtaken old rusted tools, left out who-knows how long ago. Nearby is a small building, perhaps a built for a station watcher but now boarded up from the outside.

It's true that the area does not stand out, but Lux knows that if she were searching for someone, she would quickly jump to the conclusion that they had hidden here. If they were to use a place like this, it would need to be far within the depths that Ezreal had spoken of.

And if that's the plan, she needs to learn them.

Lux steps into the dark of the cave, and lets herself light the way.

***

Lux would have liked more time to practice her illusions. Sylas has been helping her shift the way that light refracts. Helping her let it pass right through to render things invisible. It isn't reliable enough, yet. She can only manage small spaces; not the two of them standing apart, even side by side.

But opportunity comes, and Lux is not foolish enough to let it slip by.

There is a demon outside the kingdom. Soldiers are called out first, and Lux ordered by the Illuminators to be their back up. To go if they fail — to clean up what they could not handle, should it come to that.

So they know, Lux thinks, that magic is their best bet at safety and protection. And to hide her magic, they would take the risk of sacrificing men's lives.

So be it, then. What it means is this: There are fewer soldiers in the city. And outside the walls, they are focused on something else. They won't get word of a secondary search, and that should give ample time to find hiding. Lux has been hiding away since yesterday, when she had made as if to have left in the early morning.

It's a dangerous alibi, but the best she's going to get.

In Sylas's prison cell, she holds his hand and pours all the magic into their touch that she can.

Together, they break his chains from the walls.

The burst of her light flares up her own terror. She instantly feels like she is under a searchlight. But there is no going back. The crumbling of the wall is deafening, and the dust burns Lux's eyes as she squints into the opening. She had hoped it would be a quieter affair, but the chains were strong.

Her magic was stronger. 

When Lux slams her invisibility spell over herself, she feels Sylas's hand squeeze hers. She glances over, feeling him pull at the spell. But she could hardly grasp it when the light has been hers since she was born — it's no surprise that all he manages is a split second of warped image before the magic slips from him. He lets out a frustrated grunt.

"It's okay," Lux whispers. "I'll lead us. Just hurry."

Her fear does not make her question her resolve.

Lux pulls him with her, not letting go, not stopping the flow of mana between them. They hold hands not out of sentimentality, but to spread her magic between them — and to make sure he can follow who he can't see. The guards will be there soon.  
  
They fly down the streets, ducking around any corner that Lux thinks might be quieter than others. Any street where she thinks that windows might not open, lights not lit.

There are a handful of times that Lux hears the clink of armor, of guards approaching, and she has to reroute them. She's the only one that can. Sylas has been locked away too long to know the shape of this city. It isn't completely new, but it isn't completely the same, either. He doesn't know these shadows well enough to hide in them. Doesn't know the military well enough to predict where the guards will come from to get where they are going.

They have a brief window and Lux knows it.

They steal a horse. It isn't hard - Lux is good with animals, and she's been befriending this one for a week in preparation.

Sylas settles up, first. He looks out of place, but Lux wonders if maybe she will feel that way about anywhere he goes, now that it isn't a prison cell. She hoists herself up in front of him, their bodies pressed close together.

  
They ride far and fast, long into the night, and her magic slips away outside the kingdom walls. Lux keeps straining her ears, trying to hear the horns, the yelling, the sound of armored footsteps, but none of it reaches them. They make good time.

At first she hadn't had the time to spare a thought towards having Sylas pressed up against her back. But as the night goes on, there's little else to ruminate on. Only the fear of getting caught and the moments that would be her last, if it happened. She is conscious of his body, big enough to surround hers. His hands on her waist and his legs at either side of her. The blunt press of his chains against her sides, wrapped around his wrists to keep out of the way.

This wouldn't be such a bad way to go, Lux thinks. Helping someone that she chose to help. Embracing her magic. Being embraced, with his hands on her hips. But she wants more. She wants _more_ than this, and that is what it's been about from the start.

A whistle catches her off-guard.

Her eyes snap to a figure in the distance, just a silhouette in the moonlight — until it glows and bursts, and then the boy is right in front of them.

"Ezreal," Lux breathes.

He looks dully surprised, like his expression is weighed down by exhaustion. His eyes scan over her, then Sylas, calculating.

"This way," he says. Nothing else. He just points, more to the North than Lux had planned on heading — towards the forest. It's going to make it a longer trip to reach the mines, but at least the shadows would be better than being out in the open like this. If a search party is arranged right away, it's not a bad idea to be under cover of the woods.

Lux trusts him. She isn't sure why.

Sylas's hands on her hips give a squeeze as if in protest, but he doesn't say anything when she steers the horse towards the trees and leaves Ezreal behind them.

After all, he's waiting for them in the brush, anyway, with the fading glimmer of his magic and a tired wink that Lux still recoils from. She's sure neither of them mean it; the exchange makes her wonder if this is what a normal friendship could be like. She has so little experience with relationships not measured in nobility, levied for their social value.

"You don't want to stay in the open long. Demon's dealt with and all those fancy soldiers have camp set up, out there. I'm assuming you want to avoid them?"

Lux nods, gratitude and confusion both swelling up in her.

"I can still get you there. I'd ditch the horse if I were you, though."

***

Ezreal isn't half as talkative as he had been the last time they met, but this suits Lux just fine, given the circumstances. He leads the way for them, walking through the woods like second-nature and rarely so much as glancing back to make sure they're still following him.

She appreciates that he doesn't ask questions, but can't fathom why he wouldn't. Sylas's chains aren't exactly subtle.

Lux holds a branch out of the way for Sylas. When he's back in-step with her, she murmurs, "This is Ezreal. A mage that I met — he was the one to give me the idea for the caverns as a temporary hiding spot."

Sylas nods, his eyes intent on Ezreal's back. Lux can't blame him for being suspicious. "A Demacian?" he asks.

"I don't think so."

"Nah," Ezreal says over his shoulder, unashamed of his own eavesdropping. "I'm from Piltover. Mostly."

"Mostly?" Lux repeats.

He doesn't elaborate. But his eyes drift over Sylas once more before brushing past and locking on Lux. He talks to her as if Sylas isn't there — as if he doesn't see anyone else. It's somehow off-putting and flattering all at once. "What's your plan?"

She has been trying not to admit how little of a plan she has. Trying to keep up with Sylas's confidence and calm. Even with Sylas here and listening, oddly she still feels as if she can admit to Ezreal: "I barely know, at this point."

He hums. "Well, that's fine, I guess. Number one priority is just not to get caught, right? As long as you manage that—"

"—Why are you helping?" Sylas interrupts. Lux doesn't think it's suspicion in his voice, but there's a sharpness that cuts his tone away from simple curiosity.

Ezreal shrugs. "Eh. I dunno. Demacia's laws don't really… _Agree with me_ , so I don't assume much about someone who'd break them, you know? I guess you could just say I'm the helpful type. Plus — blondes gotta stick together."

He laughs, and Lux offers a light, forced laugh in return. When Ezreal's attention is forward once more, she exchanges a look with Sylas, and finds comfort in the way he rolls his eyes.

***

When they reach the caverns, Ezreal heads straight for the small house with the boarded up windows.

Lux knows the door is locked, but supposes his magic could get around that with ease — but she's surprised when he knocks on the door, instead.

A child opens the door, and the sight of her makes Lux feel as if the world has gone upside-down in an instant. She looks closer to twelve than eight. She's a cute girl, with freckles on her skin and golden bangle bracelets and anklets.

Lux suspects that Ezreal does not know how to discern children's ages — but the rest of his description was right. Her eyes are blue and purple, and her hair — gods, her hair is so long, shimmering like a sunset. Orange to pink and violet, even specked with early stars as if they are braided in.

The magic that emanates from her is like nothing Lux has ever felt before. Overwhelming and bright, playful and uncontained. And there is something to the idea of it being so visible. Woven into each strand of her hair like it's a natural part of her, the same way that Ezreal's cheeks glow blue like a blush made of mana.

They are the image of freedom, burned into Lux's mind.

For some reason, the first thing she thinks to do is mouth _Eight?_ at Ezreal, eyes darting between him and the girl, eyebrow raised.

Ezreal shrugs at her.

"You're late," the girl grouses.

Ezreal ignores her completely, addressing Lux and Sylas instead. "We're kind of camping out here, so if any guards come knocking we'll say we didn't see anyone or anything, but I doubt they're going to be dissuaded from checking for themselves."

"This place isn't big enough for more people. And I like when it's just the two of us," the girl says.

Ezreal sighs, and runs an exasperated hand through his hair. "I know you do, Twilight."

"It's too open," Lux offers, somehow feeling like she should soothe the child's concerns. "We're going to make use of the caverns themselves."

When the girl looks to her, it is still with narrowed eyes. She nods slowly, like she is dubiously accepting this answer.

" _Zoe_ ," Ezreal scolds. He shakes his head, then turns back to Lux. "We're not done in this area, so — we can help bring you food or whatever. The rest is pretty much up to you."

"Thank you," Lux murmurs. When Sylas is silent, she nudges him. All it elicits from him is a curt nod in Ezreal's direction.

"It's possible they'll check this area tonight," Ezreal says, as if he doesn't want to admit it. "But even if I keep watch from here, it's not like I have a good way of alerting you. If the goal is to go undetected, any warning I could give would just give you away. Could have some kind of lantern signal, but I think you keepin' close enough to see it is just more danger."

The young girl — Zoe — tilts her head to the side. "Why not just get rid of anyone that comes after you?"

Ezreal knocks her on the head lightly. "Pragmatic as ever."

"I could do it," she sulks, swatting his hand away. "If _you_ wanted me to."

She does not look to either of them when she says this, and Lux understands clearly that the offer is only for Ezreal. He just bops her on the head again, sighing.

"We'll be alright," Lux assures them, even if her heart races and she does not fully believe her own words. "You've done enough for us."

"We can take care of ourselves," Sylas adds, with more pride than gratitude.

It's strange to hear him speaking to anyone else. Strange to hear him speak of the two of them like they are a unit. The whole world feels surreal, and her pulse is still slamming fast as they stand still in the cool of night.

Ezreal does not seem to mind Sylas's tone; he just nods. "Alright. Then — here." He digs in his pockets for another piece of parchment. "Old maps are wrong after the caves got all messed up, but I did this one in the last couple days. Thought I'd be seeing you again. Doesn't go as far as I'd like, but it'll get you in and out without getting lost and that's more than most people can say. And better than any of the old maps."

"Thank you," Lux whispers.

Accepting so much help and so many gifts does not sit well with her, but if this is the cost of Sylas's safety, Lux knows there's no choice in the matter.

***

They do not even risk the full comfort of a camp within the caves. No fire for warmth, no lantern for light. They don't know when they'll need to move again, or how quickly.

Exhausted and on edge, they barely exchange a word. In the dark, they climb into a bedroll together, and Lux is too tense to even focus on this.

For fleeting moments, she is conscious of touching him, the darkness around them too pervasive to manage anything without a hand on his arm, without his fingers at her sides. In the bedroll she is aware of his back against hers and how solid his form is. Of how it feels no different than when they had leaned together in his cage, but now — now they are stepping outside. Slowly, inch by inch, taking freedom. And he is still him, and she is still her.

It would be a luxury to have her heart race for these small touches, these intimacies now that they are bound by what they've done.

But for fleeting moments she thinks she hears voices that are only the wind. Alarms that are only leaves rustling. Footsteps that are only — Gods, she doesn't know what — but they keep her too on edge for anything else.  
  
For all the sounds, no one comes.

They shouldn't both sleep. They should take turns keeping watch. But they are both exhausted. She can feel it in her own body. In his body against hers.

She tries to stay awake as long as she can. But there is an unfamiliar comfort in the sensation of his breathing — feeling his body's rise and fall press against her. It is soothing, the only warm in the chill of the night, and the cave, and the dark. She drifts off before she knows it.

In the morning she has to leave him.

"This is part of not getting caught," Lux murmurs. It is so dark in the caves that she cannot even see his face as she holds his cheek in her palm. It feels like she is only leaving him in another cage, leaving him in the dark to hide away or be killed.

"Of course," he says, all too matter-of-fact.

What happens if _she_ is caught while away? In some ways, Lux worries she is only slowing him down to begin with, but the thought of his solitude in the darkness makes her heart ache.

"I can come back with supplies. Maybe you can venture further into these caves, as long as you're careful. Make sure you can stay hidden, but make sure you don't get lost."

Sylas nods again, his beard scratchy against her palm. His silence strikes her as curious — as if he doesn't know why she hasn't left yet. Perhaps she's the only one so anxious of parting.

"We'll discuss where to go from here when I return," she adds.

She should pull away from him.

She feels the movement of his jaw. "You're stalling."

She cannot read his tone to know if he is annoyed or amused.

"I'm afraid," Lux admits, surprised by how easily the words leave her. It does not feel like a dam bursting, like many of her outbursts have felt in the past. This is still only a trickle. That's what frightens her. Even so, she murmurs, "I'm afraid that you won't be here when I come back."

"I've nowhere else to go, alone."

"That's not what I mean."

He is silent, patiently waiting for an explanation, but Lux cannot find the words. Even in her own mind she cannot articulate the fear, and so she only shakes her head.

"It's nothing. I'll be back early tomorrow. Be safe."

"Be safe," he repeats back to her, less like well-wishes and more like a command.

***

There's no avoiding that she is suspicious. Lux knows this.

To have been sent away to a battlefield she never reached, alone and unseen, the night before Sylas escaped… Perhaps she should have parted with Sylas and met with the soldiers for some form of alibi. Or would that make her _more_ suspect, to be seen outside the walls when Sylas was known to have made it past them, too?

In the end, all Lux can do is hope that her family name is enough to brush off any questions, the same way that it's enough to get her back within the kingdom.

She feels paranoid and on edge, and it's all the more jarring for how few eyes seek her out at all. The streets are quiet — far more morose than Lux would imagine for news of a single escaped convict. She is used to being greeted most anywhere she goes, famous for her family. For her engagement.

She had been ready for the spotlight, or at least telling herself she was ready.

Something is wrong.

She can't ask without looking suspicious for not knowing, and carefully feigns the same mood that she senses all around her. It isn't difficult to look as somber as everyone else does. To cast her gaze downward and let herself frown. She has worn this expression of silent heartbreak with sincerity too often to be unable to call it at will.

When she finds Garen at home, it is not an act that her eyes are suddenly misty.

Would that he could be a confidante and not another threat to her safety. Her chest aches with this, suddenly a reality she must skirt around and not just a nightmare that lingers after she wakes, held back by thin veils of secrecy.

"Lux," he greets her, as if startled to see her. As if she's caught him somewhere he shouldn't be, when it is only the sitting room of the home that he lives in, too. He rises from his seat and crosses the room to her. "Are you alright?"

She nods, and murmurs a soft, "I think so. I was on a mission outside the walls and I've only just returned."

She does not want to admit to having no clue what has come over the city. Stepping near the subject works well enough. Garen's hands set on her shoulders, and he hesitates there for a moment before pulling her into an awkward hug.

"What news to return to," he says. "That the king is dead."

The world slips away from her.

She is plunged another layer into the depths of surreal reality. She feels like she'll never break the surface and breath in normalcy again, and she hadn't thought that feeling could intensify any more than it had last night.

This is why the city is in mourning.

"I just can't — believe it," Lux whispers, voice fracturing. This is not an act.

Garen draws back from her.

"There was a mage. Escaped last night," he says. His grip on her shoulders is tighter now, and Lux is not blind to the suspicion in his voice, nor the self-loathing beneath it, like an undercurrent. "Before fleeing past the walls, he slayed the king himself."

Lux can't stop her body from tensing. In terror, in disbelief — in indignation. Her eyes quickly scan Garen's face for any give, any tell, a clue about what he's thinking. She wants to believe that he trusts her, that he is clueless. That it is concern.

She understands the way he hates himself for his own suspicion. She hates him for it, too.

His fingers are digging in uncomfortably. "Lux," he says, like a warning.

He knows. He knows and there's no avoiding it, no acting her way out of it, and so with her heart pounding loudly in the quiet room, Lux snaps, "It wasn't Sylas!"

Garen's eyes dart to the doorway, like he is afraid of being overheard. With a rough, hushed voice, repeats her name again. " _Lux_."

" _What?_ " She says, venomous as she can.

He lets go of her. Takes a step away.

Her whole body is rigid, so tense that she is sure she will be nauseous when she relaxes. So tense that she cannot imagine ever relaxing again. She backs up until her back hits the wall, then crosses her arms over her chest.

Garen's figure is as imposing as ever, even from across the room. He looks at her with a furrowed brow and an understanding in his eyes that makes her skin crawl.

The house is dark and quiet, practically abandoned. Lux wonders where their parents are, and knows that Garen would never have said anything if they were home. The silence stretches, and the churn of betrayal in her stomach expands with it.

"What," Lux whispers, "you want me to tell you where he is?"

She wouldn't. She would never.

Garen jolts back as if recoiling from the idea. His eyebrows shoot up and distress paints his face.

This gives Lux pause. The two of them assess each other.

Garen isn't going to believe her. But he isn't going to tell anyone. She can feel this in her bones, in her blood.

Lux still repeats: "It wasn't Sylas. I would know."

"Don't," Garen warns her, helplessly.

"He was with me the whole night."

Garen exhales as if the breath is pushed from him by the weight of her words. Slow and long and remorseful. She is too defensive to care about his plausible deniability, about his desire to play innocent, to play uninvolved.

"This is beyond…" He trails off. Runs a hand down his face and finds a chair to slump down into. His sigh is haggard and weary.

Lux could not feel more the opposite. Her nerves are on fire, pulse pounding fast. She feels hyper aware of each horrible second dragging on.

"This is more than just freeing a mage. The _king,_ Lux. This is treason — it's not something anyone else could turn a blind eye to."

"Then it's a good thing no other eyes are on me."

She is surprised that Garen mutters: "Yes."

He waits, then, for her to say something more. She won't repeat herself again, won't try to convince him of the truth. It will surely fall on deaf ears. Eventually he gives up on waiting.

"What are you thinking?" His voice is raw, his eyes still shielded by his own palm as if to block out a blinding light. "You've made things so much worse."

"Have I." The coldness of her voice startles him into looking at her, into dropping his hands to his lap. As much as she wants to, Lux can't keep the hostility up. She is softer the next time she speaks. "We haven't hurt anyone."

He does not sound like he believes her. Not fully. But she is surprised that he asks her: "Then who did? Am I to believe it was a simple moment of convenient opportunity?"

"That's what our escape was as well, so I don't see why not."

"Then _who_ , Lux?"

"I don't know. I can't tell you what I wasn't present for, only that I _wasn't_ present. Who else would want the king dead?"

Garen's eyes narrow at the word _else_ , as Lux had known they would. Even so, she believes that the clearest path to the truth will be to tell hers. To him, if no one else.

"The list will always be long for a ruler," Garen says.

"Another kingdom's assassin?"

Garen shakes his head. "What enemies does Demacia have besides Noxus? And what value would a dead king have to them with the prince still alive? Without a proclamation of victory?"

"Then someone within the kingdom. What movements does he oppose? What groups could be so incited by him?"

Garen gives her a withering stare, as if annoyed that she would ask. He does not have to say the obvious.

A frown pulls at her lips. "But with no announcement? No claim? Just an anonymous assassination left to be misattributed to Sylas by chance? What's the purpose?"

"Simple revenge, perhaps."

She is still on edge, as if her brother might betray her at any moment. As if, should her shoulders relax for even a moment, it would welcome mageseekers in through the front door. She forces herself to cross the room and sit down beside him, even as it makes her stomach churn with dread to do so.

"Perhaps," she says, voice full of doubt.

"Without claiming responsibility, it was given to him. He is still a mage. It still sends a message," Garen says. He opens his mouth as if he has more to say, but only closes it again. Instead, without looking to her, he holds out his arm. His hand palm-up for her to take.

When she holds his hand, he is warm and protective, a sturdy firmness where she finds herself trembling. She feels like a child trying to hide away from the world behind her brother. But in this small way, for the first time in her life, she feels that he is her confidante.

"Then," Lux whispers to him, "Who was it that set the blame on his shoulders?"

She feels his hand twitch in recognition. A thought that he dares not speak, dares not share with her.

***

The flow of time is a mysterious beast. At times it bounds in leaps, other times it skulks slowly, ominously. Time watches her every move with predatory eyes, ready to pounce if she makes a mistake.

Lux brings supplies for travel from home to the cavern. She spends more time moving to and fro than she does within the walls or within the caves.

Garen is scarce, when she is home. Lux cannot blame him. His secrecy is a high cost; neither of them can afford anything more from him.

Her time with Sylas is equally limited. They set up camp further into the caves, far enough back that they feel safe to light lanterns and start fires for warmth. She wishes she could stay longer than to bring him necessities, than to eat simple meals that Ezreal shares with them, but if she's to be home before raising suspicion, she can't linger.

Tonight, she has stayed too late. Time becomes even more unknowable when she is alone with Sylas, like she could count the beats of a hummingbird's heart, and like her own heart beats only once per hour.

"I'll see you off," Sylas offers, rising to his feet.

Lux smiles at the thought, but shakes her head. "It's dangerous."

"No one has come, yet."

"It's only a matter of time."

"Then we do as the little girl says. Get rid of any threat."

" _Or_ we could _avoid_ a threat."

In the end she cannot talk him out of it. Lux suspects it is less to do with her and more to do with venturing out of this new sort of cage. She wonders how often he risks being seen when she is away, with an anxiousness only soothed by the fact that he is here beside her now.

They walk together, through the winding caves that she has only barely begun to memorize.

The mouth of the caverns is still far, far away, but as it comes into view, Lux can see the pale lilac of a sunset. The world of freedom is smaller than her fingernail — but that's larger than it ever was before.

She sees a lone figure with a lantern, moving with exaggerated movements in the familiar way of Ezreal. It takes a moment to realize that this is a warning — that there are more figures. Silhouettes of soldiers popping up, pitch black against the skyline.

Her arm instinctively shoots out in front of Sylas, but he's already stopped.

He grabs her arm roughly and pulls her to the side, up against the dark shadows of the cavern wall. "No sudden movements," he whispers, leaning close to her ear.

They inch along the wall, further into the shadows, both watching the figures dip down out of the light and into the cave. The metallic sound of their armored boots has not drawn close enough yet for silence.

"What if they find our things?" Lux whispers.

"They won't go so deep," Sylas assures her.

He tugs her around the first corner they come upon, out of the last reaches of sunlight. Her body rounds it so fast that she crashes against him, but before she can pull away he is holding her tight. _No sudden movements,_ Lux thinks. He is a hypocrite as always.

She can't risk struggling or making noise. The soldiers are only growing closer.

Lux presses herself to Sylas's chest. It should be frightening to be held in place so firmly, unable to escape — to run — if she needs to. But there's something soothing in the flow of body-heat and mana between them as she pushes him into the wall, as if they are both trying to flatten themselves against it. Something soothing in having no choice to make, in having only to live with the consequences of this.

The footsteps echo down the tunnels, quiet at first, then accompanied by voices.

The shadows aren't going to be enough. Sylas must feel her heart pounding; he squeezes her against him tighter.

"Use your magic."

"To blind them?" She questions, an incredulous whisper.

"Bend the light. Refract it. Take it away."

"I can't cover both of us."

His grip on her does not loosen. The footsteps are getting closer.

If all she can do is try, Lux thinks, then she will at least try. She draws on her magic and thinks of it like a shield. Like she is pushing away what little light falls on them, like she is opening an umbrella and the light is the raindrops. _Keep us dry,_ Lux thinks, _keep us shadowed._

Sylas is dipping into her mana, taking it for himself and echoing the same spell. What little light that escapes her command does not escape his; together they push it away. They press close, making themselves less area to cover.

The footsteps are upon them. She clenches her eyes shut and holds her breath. She doesn't dare turn her head to watch and see the soldiers pass them by.

Her heart thunders in her ears so loudly that she can't fathom no one hearing it. The air stirs with proximity; she can feel even Sylas's heart beating out of rhythm.

"See anything?"

"Too fucking dark."

The soldier's voices are loud and clear. With the echo, she cannot tell if they have passed by yet or not.

"Perfect to hide in, then."

One soldier snorts with disbelief. "You think they could navigate these tunnels? We barely can and we've got the only damn map."

"Don't underestimate how lost a man will risk getting to save his skin."

"It's no salvation to starve to death in the dark and dirt."

Lux feels Sylas's hand twitch, still holding her waist tight. He catches himself; does not risk the shift of fabric if he over-corrects.

"That traveler said he hadn't seen a soul," one soldier says.

"Going unseen is the _entire_ point of being in hiding," another argues, exasperated. "Besides, how much stock do you put in a traveler's words? He's not from around here."

"Light that lantern," a third voice says. "We'll check just a little ways further."

Panic shoots through her. Keeping shadows dark is one thing — invisibility is another. She couldn't cover them both, before. She hasn't had enough practice to do it now.

The sound of the soldiers fumbling must be enough for Sylas to risk it — he gives her hip a firm, reassuring squeeze. She feels his mana ebb and flow, pulsing and reshaping his spell. Instead of telling the light to turn itself away, the spell tells it to pass through them. To shine not on them, but on the cavern walls behind.

Lux holds her breath and joins him. Taking a risk is better than letting themselves be caught without a struggle. Better than killing soldiers whose faces she might recognize if she looked to see.

It's more prayer than spell.

Lux begs the light to pass through them, to touch only on the walls of the cave and not their bodies.

She doesn't dare open her eyes. She still sees the burst of red behind her eyelids as the lantern lights.

Her heart feels as if it will burst. Her head aches from how tightly she is scrunching up her face. Her eyes are squeezed shut. Her palms sweat with the strain of this unfamiliar spell, stretched further than she's ever managed it before. 

There is only one moment of silence, then: "Oh, shit."

"What?" One of the other soldiers demands, his voice further away. "What is it?"

"We're down the wrong — this one's a dead end."

"Oh for fuck's sake," one of them mutters, quickly overwhelmed by the sound of crinkling paper as they consult their map in the light.

With Sylas and Lux mere meters away, the soldiers argue over the map.

With the lantern light passing through their targets, showing nothing but the walls of the cave, they grumble and groan.

Then the light of their lantern fades. Their voices fade. Their footsteps fade.

Sylas and Lux are left in the dark, holding one another against the wall with clammy hands and gasping breaths. She feels his chest heaving against hers, taking deep gulps of air after having been deprived.

They don't dare move. It feels like an eternity, as they regain composure.

Her whole body feels hot and she does not know if this is the anxiety still vibrating inside of her or if it's just the feeling of Sylas holding her so tightly. She knows, she _knows_ that this should not be a priority right now — that it is absurd to think of this at all when they were so close to being caught. Relying on a spell neither have mastered, barely held long enough at all. Soldiers _this_ close to catching them.

And Lux is thinking about how nice it is to be held.

She does not even let herself wonder what Sylas thinks of it. She knows that he is better than her about this. Even if, _if_ , there is something between them, something mutual, something beyond just her own feelings… She knows that Sylas's priorities are not so skewed as hers. Not so childish and romantic.

The moment stretches achingly long, his arms still wrapped around her. It feels like hours. It feels like only seconds. The beast of time stalks her from a distance again, circling and circling.

Until finally, Ezreal's voice echoes down the tunnel, "It's safe now, if you're, uh, close enough to hear me. And we've got dinner."

Lux lets out a sigh of relief.

She begins to draw back, but her chest has barely left his when Sylas pulls her back against him. It's sudden; she stumbles against him.

It is too dark to look into his eyes, too dark to read anything from his expression. His skin is warm and soft over firm muscle that breathes with him.

"It could be a trap," he murmurs.

"Ezreal wouldn't do that."

"How can you know?"

"I just know. We can trust him."

Sylas lets out a quiet, disgruntled sound. Lux feels it more than she hears it.

"We must have waited long enough," she says.

"Just one moment longer, then."

Despite his words, his grip goes loose, allowing her the freedom to escape from him if she so wished it. Like this, she can feel the weight of his shackles behind the light grip of his hands at her hips. She is conscious of the chains tracing down her legs, and conscious of her hands on his abdomen.

Lux relaxes against him. "One moment longer."

She counts out his heartbeat with her ear to his chest. She loses count and starts again — and again, and again.

"This is no better, Little Light," Sylas murmurs. "We can't stay in this cage, either."

"I know," Lux whispers.

There's no salvation in the dark and dirt.

***

"Well," Ezreal says, talking with his mouth full. "The king's already dead, right? So the kingdom is like — ripe for overthrowing."

He is met with an exasperated silence; Lux can hear distant crickets over the crackling of the fire, and the evening breeze whistling through the grass and trees.

She glances to her side, and for a moment just watches Sylas eat. There is something rejuvenating about seeing him under the open starry sky like this, his face aglow with firelight. Even if he still looks a mess, covered in grime and dirt.

"Whether or not to overthrow the current leadership is not the matter in question," Lux says. "The issue we face is _how_ to do so."

Ezreal shrugs. "I don't have a firm grasp on the political set up of the monarchy, but — hm. The current leader has only _been_ the leader for a matter of days, right? So you can't exactly put him to trial for any crimes."

Sylas says, "Morality and the law are too far separated; his sins aren't anything he can be tried for."

"Not without winning enough favor from civilians, and I don't think we can do that," Lux adds.

Ezreal nods understandingly. "Right, right. You'd need the public on your side to try and put him to trial for something that was immoral but legal, buuut as far as I can tell, Demacians are mostly onboard with that, uh, _mess._ "

"Just kill the rest of the guys in charge," Zoe suggests, holding a dessert in each hand and looking baffled by their whole conversation.

When Sylas glances her way, he looks amenable to the idea, and Lux frowns at him. 

"I mean," Ezreal says, snatching the mooncake in Zoe's left hand. "That's definitely one way to change up rulers. Historically. Generally done with a war to back things up, though."

"I don't want to kill the prince," Lux says, feeling absurd for having to announce this so firmly.

"Suit yourself," Zoe says.

Ezreal says, once again talking with his mouth full, "Problem is, other methods of dethroning someone usually _still_ take an army."

"Our numbers are slim," Lux reminds him, dryly.

He sounds amused; "I'll say."

She can't help the swell of fondness for him. All that he's done to help her already would be enough to earn it, but now he sits with them at a campfire, shares his food, and tries to help with their nonsensical, starry-eyed plans. Perhaps not in execution, but in ideation.

They must seem like daydreaming fools to him, but she can tell that he is sincere. It's as if he doesn't think it's impossible, and this lights the spark of hope inside of her.

"We aren't the only mages in Demacia," Sylas points out. "Small numbers can still have more strength."

"We've no way of organizing," Lux says. "Even were I to somehow spread rumors without a word being traced back to me — which is unlikely — it's impossible said rumors wouldn't reach the mageseekers and military."

"Secret mage meetings in the forest," Ezreal muses. "Almost a good idea, until the mageseekers show up to arrest your club leader."

Sylas lets out a breath of frustration, but can't argue. "To rely on unknown numbers in a pivotal moment would be unwise."

"Then we'd need forces powerful in their own right," Lux says.

"Mages," Sylas asserts.

"Ideally."

"You'd need your forces organized in advance," Ezreal says.

Sylas looks to the younger man. "You're a traveler. You must know where there is power to be taken."

Ezreal gives it due consideration, blessedly silent while he finishes his dessert. He glances over to Zoe for a moment, then his gaze drifts up to the stars. He chews his lip, like he is deciding how much to share, deciding which secrets to tell. Lux knows the feeling well.

"I don't know. Outside the walls there are mages — people living alone or in small settlements. Could be powerful to gather up the exiled mages of Demacia that have stayed in the area, but it's not like anyone can map out _where_ they are."

Lux wonders if Ezreal means powerful in concept or powerful in strength. Either way, she sighs. "A lovely idea, but one that requires time and luck."

"We're slim on both," Sylas says. When they both look to him, he elaborates, "The sooner we make a move, the better. Before the prince settles into his new role."

He doesn't have to explain to Lux that their luck already feels tapped out just with his escape.

"If I find any mages while we're about, I'll send them your way. No telling if they'll want any part of the conflict, though. Or even be useful," Ezreal says. Then hums. "Alternatively, there's always mutual aid. Allying with mutual enemies of Demacia."

Sylas's brow furrows. "We aren't enemies to Demacia."

Lux nods. "Which narrows our options. Enemies of Demacia are still enemies to us. We need power to make change. That's the only draw that power has."

"So — less about being rulers and more about changing what rulers do?" Ezreal clarifies, curious.

Sylas purses his lips. "Something like that," he says, curt but not unkind.

"So allying yourselves with Noxus would be out." Ezreal sounds pleased by this.

"You could climb a mountain," Zoe says. "Then you'd be so strong you could do whatever you wanted."

There is a beat of silence, where the three of them all look at her, mystified.

"And go to the Freljord?" Sylas asks, apparently humoring the child's idea.

"What? No."

"Not a bad idea, though," Ezreal says. "There's lots of magic up there, and strong warriors."

"We've nothing to offer them," Lux says.

"The reward of a war is ordinarily ruling," Sylas agrees.

Ezreal shrugs. "You think so? What about resources? I'm sure any kind of trade would be a huge help to a community so isolated in the cold. If you're redistributing wealth anyway."

Lux hesitates. "It's true that if we were able to dull the fear of magic, it could open up more trade with those who wield it… But magic isn't the only reason we avoid the mountains. There's no easy trade route to be opened. The journey is likely to kill."

"If you don't know how to make it, sure," Ezreal says.

Sylas raises an eyebrow. "And you do?"

"Nah. But I bet _they_ do."

"If Demacia's so strong or whatever," Zoe says, "and resources aren't enough… Just promise 'em a favor. Promise to fight their enemies for 'em."

Lux considers this for a moment, and knows by the look on Sylas's face that he is doing the same.

"It isn't as if I want a full-on war," Lux murmurs.

"Unfortunate," Ezreal says, far too easily. This startles Lux, which seems to startle him in return. "Uh. Hate to break it to you, but peace rarely gets anyone anywhere. Historically, almost all change — change for the better — comes through violent uprisings."

Through the frustration of the entire situation, Lux finds some amusement in the way that Sylas and Zoe both nod along with Ezreal, both with similarly knowingly expressions on their face.

In the end, the conversation sputters out, derailed by the quiet enjoyment of company that feels so natural, yet still new and serendipitous. Their talk slowly drifts on to other topics. Away from the monarchy and magic in the north and on to history, and the twilights of past civilizations.

Lux lingers for so long that she has to ride all night to reach home by morning.

She closes the curtains in her bedroom to block out the daylight and collapses onto her bed. Her last thought before sleep takes her is that she wishes Sylas could lay in such comfort.

***

In the afternoon, Lux is startled awake by a knock at her door.

Her first thought is of mageseekers, but at the second rap she knows that it's Garen.

She still feels tense. When she opens the door, she can tell that he is too, his whole body set with the rigidity of denial.

How _tiring,_ Lux thinks. How unjust it is that their interactions are stained with this.

"The prince requests your presence," Garen says.

Lux knows it is not really a request.

Garen does not leave the room, and so Lux gets dressed behind an ornate screen. It's all such a waste, she can't help but think. She _likes_ these pretty things all around her home, but they mean nothing in the face of knowing that she slept comfortably in featherbed and silk, and Sylas slept in the cold.

She cannot decide if Garen's silent presence is a comfort or not. She cannot place what it is, exactly, that keeps her heart racing as it does.

He doesn't manage to speak until she is making to leave the room, when he blurts out, "You're not—" then cuts himself off.

Lux pauses in the doorway. She turns to look at him, sitting on the bench at the foot of her bed. He looks out of place; she hasn't seen him step foot in her room since she was a child.

"I'm not what?"

"You're not helping," Garen eventually says, words heavy and weary. "Once Tianna announced a mage as the culprit, the backlash was inevitable. Your actions have only made it harder to get by for those adept at keeping their secrets."

"You're blaming the wrong person at every step of this conflict."

She does not wait for his answer before leaving him behind.

***

"We should still marry," Jarvan says to her, his tone level and unreadable.

Lux startles badly, her eyes quickly darting around the meeting room as if to check that it went unheard.

But he has already dismissed his guards to wait outside, under the guise of mourning with his fiancée in privacy. She imagines they tread a thin line between obedience and over-protection, these days.

She doesn't know what to say to his words — the thought of happily accepting as she plans to overthrow him is nauseating. It's much too cruel for her. All she can think is that she cares for him so sincerely, and that she hasn't seen him since his father passed.

And so, all she says is, "I'm so sorry for your loss."

His face gives away nothing. His eyes dart away as if he is simply disinterested in looking at her.

"Are you?"

Her heart skips a beat; her blood runs cold. "Of course I am."

Jarvan allows his gaze to drift back to her, and sounds profoundly tired when he says: "No secrets, Lux."

"No secrets," she repeats, and tries to recall exactly how many guards are on the other side of the only door out of this room.

"Do you stand by your story?" He asks.

 _Garen_ , Lux thinks, but is too unsurprised to even feel betrayed. "Of course," she says, and looks down to her trembling hands on her lap. She tries to steady them, flexing her fingers.

"That you committed the crime of breaking a dangerous, murderous mage from his prison cell, then hid him away," Jarvan carries on, voice growing harsher.

"No," Lux says, quietly. "That isn't the story I stand by. Sylas hasn't killed anyone."

"What do you think got him imprisoned in the first place?"

Lux hesitates. She watches Jarvan for a careful moment, but cannot sense any danger from him. He is tense, like she is, with a furrowed brow and bags beneath his eyes. She is afraid of him, in the same way that she is worried for him, sad for him.

"He didn't kill your father," Lux says, eventually. "I helped him escape. You know this already so I won't deny it. But it's as you said. We _escaped_. There was no time for him to hurt anyone."

No matter how deeply she searches his eyes, there is no light of trust within them.

"And are _you_ as harmless as you think he is?" Jarvan asks.

"I am," Lux says, unsure herself if she is lying or not. Sylas is not harmless and neither is she. She does not want anyone hurt, but if it were for freedom — for the liberation of mages… She cannot say that there is no trade of life she would take.

She waits patiently for him to size her up.

"Show me," he says, his voice soft. "If you would. Show me your magic."

Lux takes in a sharp breath despite herself. She looks at him as if seeking permission when it was his own request, and at his nod, exhales.

This is a risk — but Lux is briefly struck by the fantasy of peace. Of Jarvan overturning the laws against mages, of marrying, of having the authority to impact the kingdom and make change for the better. There is a part of the fantasy that churns her stomach, a part of it that turns to heartbreak, but she knows that it would be worth that cost.

"No secrets," Lux murmurs.

The room lights up with her glow. It bleeds out around them, externalized, pushed outside of her body and split into a million falling sparkles like slowly landing fireflies. She watches the light drift across Jarvan's face, streaks of prismatic light tracing his cheek and throat as he swallows.

"No secrets," he repeats again, eyes on her. There is something missing, Lux thinks. It takes her a long moment to realize that she is picturing the way Sylas looks at her when she uses her magic. The open adoration, the understanding.

Jarvan is not afraid of her, but there is judgment written on his face.

Lux ventures, "I'll be able to do much more, in time. I'm sure of it."

"You'll do great things," Jarvan says. His voice is gentle. Patient. This sudden acceptance startles her, and all she can do is nod slowly.

There is more he wants to say, and the lights in the room glow brighter, pulsing with Lux's impatience.

"What is it?" She asks.

He takes a deep breath.

"Announcing that I've chosen to wed a mage won't do anyone any favors right now," he says, slowly. "There are many who don't approve of my leadership yet, and it's best to earn their favor before enacting any controversial changes."

He is quiet for so long that Lux feels as if she must puzzle out what he is implying. It feels like she's missing pieces when she offers, cautiously, "Then it's in our best interests to delay a marriage."

He shakes his head. "That's not my meaning."

His silence lasts so long that her lights fade away. She watches his tight expression in room that feels suddenly dull and dry without the shine of magic.

"Public perception won't change overnight. To announce you as a mage, even one chosen and approved of and _loved_ by myself won't undo what's been done. What people have heard. It won't outweigh fear."

"Then, what? We wed and announce what I am later?"

"We wed, and we rule, and we wait."

"For _what_?!" Lux bursts, startling even herself.

Jarvan sounds as if he is reciting a script given to him by someone else. "Until we're remembered as benevolent and beloved rulers."

The way it clicks into place feels like a flame igniting. It's an explosion in her chest; she feels hot with anger. "You want me to rule by your side until I _die_ , so that _decades_ from now, someone can say, _She was a mage all along! You see, they_ can _be good!_ You want to trick people into accepting me and give them the reason they would have been wrong not to only when it's too late! As if they won't simply say that I was good _because_ I suppressed this evil part of myself!"

" _Want_ is not my word of choice," Jarvan grinds out. "We don't have many options here, Luxanna. Change is made slowly. We can't give anyone even the _chance_ to doubt you — and if they know you are a mage, they _will_ doubt you. They will doubt you until the day you die, no matter how perfectly you play the role."

"It would not _be_ playing a role! Being good, being good for Demacia is not a _role_ that I play! It's who I _am._ You want to cater to those who are wrong?! So we don't change what's unjust because it's _inconvenient_ that there will be people who remain unconvinced? We cater to _them_ before we enact change that will help the mages who are suffering in hiding and in exile _right now_?!"

"I _want_ to marry the woman I love," Jarvan finally snaps. "I _want_ my father alive, and I _want_ to be realistic about what is possible and what will _help_ the change you want come to fruition! Allow me the _only one_ of these that is even remotely possible. This isn't a fairytale. The most we can do is mitigate damage."

He's hiding something from her, and she doesn't know what. She's always thought of Jarvan as an honest man, and now she feels as if there are nothing but unseen depths for her to be dragged down into.

"Coward," Lux whispers. It's the one outburst she regrets, even if she means it with all her heart.

His whole body tenses. A silence fills the room, souring the air.

"Who's advice was it?" She asks. She hates that her voice trembles.

He does not avert his gaze, but his silence is answer enough.

"Why do you think Auntie still wants us to marry?" Lux asks. "For my sake? For yours?"

Jarvan mutters under his breath, "What would I gain…" 

It does not particularly sting. But she can see on his face that he regrets saying it; that he realizes how much it could have. He opens his mouth, but she doubts it will be an apology, and so she cuts him off.

"Exactly," Lux says. As firmly as she can, with as much confidence as she can muster. "What do you gain? What do I gain?"

Jarvan stares at her. Quietly, he finishes the thought. "What does she gain?"

"What does she gain," Lux repeats. It is not a question. Jarvan knows the answer, and she can see that he is mulling it over with great discomfort.

Jarvan is quiet far too long, this time. The tension in the air cuts her to her core, pushing in on her from every side as if the walls of this vast room are closing in. She's sure she could hear a whisper from a mile away in this uncomfortable silence.

Maybe she should leave. Maybe she shouldn't press her luck, hoping to change his mind.

"Consider it," Jarvan finally says, breaking the silence with a tone so helpless that Lux feels her heart breaking for him. She has never seen him so vulnerable; she has to fight back the impulse to move closer to him. "If you'll consider my plans, I'll consider yours."

"I haven't told you my plans," Lux points out, though she knows that this is to admit that she _has_ plans.

Jarvan looks at her, his eyes still deep wells of sadness, but with a knowing expression. She isn't sure _what_ he knows, but she can't behave as if he's clueless. Can't clarify without risking admitting to more than he's figured out.

But this means that s he has a bargaining chip. This means that he is _giving_ her one.

***

"The prince still wants to marry me," Lux says to Sylas, nearly the moment she next sees him.

She does not understand the look of betrayal that flashes across his face, as if this is a shock to him. He should _know,_ she thinks furiously, that she is nobility of marrying age. That Jarvan is a good man, at his core and past his grief.

"Then wed your oppressor," Sylas says dismissively. His expression could almost pass for neutral, his lips a thin line, but his brow is still deeply furrowed like he can't control it. He usually has such a composure to him. More control over his own face than Lux can ever muster of her own.

"He isn't my oppressor, he wants _change_ within Demacia. He _knows_ , Sylas." She watches his face, expecting this to soothe him, even if only a little. "He knows what I am."

"Does he, now." His voice is flat.

"Don't you think it's inspiring?" She presses, trying not to sound as desperate for his approval as she feels. "For someone without magic to love a mage?"

Sylas crosses his arms over his chest, chains rattling as they shift with the movement. He sounds amused, yet no less irritated with her. "You think he _loves_ you? I didn't think you were such a poor judge of character."

"Just — the concept," she mutters. "Love is… Different when you're nobility."

"Strategic, you mean. Political." He says the word as if it tastes sour in his mouth.

"Even if only in strategy, don't you think that's still romantic? Don't you think it still means something powerful that the prince of Demacia wants to marry a mage? Wants to enact change through _union_?"

"No," Sylas says plainly. She hates when he talks down to her like this, when he speaks as if he is explaining something to a child. "A ruler shouldn't need _personal_ motive to want the safety of his people. A mage shouldn't have to be his _wife_ to deserve safety."

"I understand that, and he understands that too. But it's about changing public perception over time."

"Of course," Sylas says, entirely unconvinced.

His arms uncross from over his chest; he reaches out and cups her cheek, and against her better judgment, Lux leans into his touch. His hand is warm; still comforting despite their fighting. The flow of mana between them is soothing, and being touched so easily makes her shoulders relax and her heartrate spike all at once.

As if he wants to sabotage his own touch, he tells her: "Your heart exists for the public."

Lux flinches away from him, stepping back quickly. She clenches her fists at her sides. "You don't understand. You know what it's like to be a mage, but you don't know the rest of my life."

"I know what you've told me of it," he counters, punctuated by the sounds of his chains dragging across the ground as he pulls away from her in return.

She is quiet, her whole body wound tight and tense. Like her own magic when she tries to delay the burst, until containing it makes every part of her ache. Like when she holds her breath for too long. She scrubs at her cheek with one hand, certain he must have left dirt behind.

Sylas is the one to break the silence. "You think the love between one with magic and one without is romantic. Why? Because you think it's more meaningful for someone to accept you as you are?"

"I—"

"—As if you're undeserving? As if to love you is some show of great sacrifice or benevolence?"

There's a kindness buried there, Lux knows, but it's too deep in the muck. Her eyes narrow, watching Sylas intently, but his head is turned, blue eyes set against the wall in a harsh glare.

"The dilution of magic isn't something to admire like a weakened poison," he says, voice unreadable. "We don't need their acceptance or their pity, or to take incremental change by the meager inches they offer while holding back miles. Mages are worthy of love, and their love given is _valuable_."

His criticism is infuriating, but she can't stop herself from focusing on the wrong parts of what he says. Her breath catches in her throat.

Sylas is always saying things like this, always looking at the world like this. Lux is used to it. The only reason it feels like ice has frosted over her skin, the reason she has goosebumps, is that he is avoiding her gaze so resolutely.

"And do you think public perception would change so easily? Do you think he could parade you around, force you to be a spectacle as if your goodness needs public _proving_ , without also putting you under threat from those whose minds are more stubborn?"

Lux swallows thickly. She hesitates for a long moment, not wanting to admit the truth to Sylas but unable to keep it to herself. "I know that you think a slow change isn't worth it," she says. Her voice trembles, and she swallows again to regain composure. "But if it's slow, I'm not in danger."

"You would never be in danger with me," Sylas says.

Lux cannot tell what he means. Cannot tell how he intends for her to take this when they are talking about her hand in marriage. She hates the way he only makes such grand statements in ways that leave her with questions.

She's glad he isn't touching her face anymore. She's sure he would feel it burning up.

"The point is — the point is also to keep _you_ safe," Lux stammers. "What if this is our best bet at doing so?"

His posture does not soften, but when he looks back her way it is as if he is conceding to something. There is a flicker of hesitation, like there is something else he wants to say, but what he says is: "I told you when we started this that I don't desire safety in an unchanged kingdom. A peaceful life under these laws is nothing I wish to return to."

"But if the laws _change_ ," Lux presses. "If I can convince him to change them…"

A scowl sets deep on Sylas's face. She may not be able to promise this, but if they're talking in potentials, he should have no argument against this one. When her eyes rake over his body, she can see that it is still tensed with a barely-contained fury. He's as rigid as if he's about to burst.

His mouth pulls tight, then opens. Closes again. Silently, his eyes pierce hers for a long moment, a crystalline icy blue. The quiet sets her insides on fire. Makes her fingers itch with a desire to touch him again, as if she could use it to prove her dedication. As if they could exchange mana and understanding through skin contact in the same way.

"If that's what you wish for from your life," he finally says. Lux gets the impression it is not what he'd wanted to say, but with just as much clarity she understands that he won't voice his true thoughts even if she presses. It startles her when he gets as far as adding: "I thought…"

But he changes his mind. Shakes his head.

"Do what you want," he says gruffly. 

Lux knows she should let it drop here.

"I _can't,_ " she snaps, instead. "I'm doing what I can to achieve what I want to happen. I'm not hiding away with my head down — I'm doing what I can for what _you_ want. It doesn't _matter_ what I want."

Sylas lets out a frustrated grunt. "The point of this was to make decisions for yourself. To escape even gilded cages."

"You can want a revolution from me or you can want me—my freedom. You can't demand both."

He catches her falter, brow arching. Her face burns with the shame of her self-indulgence; of phrasing things how she'd like them to be. But she knows better.

Hurriedly, she adds, "The point of this was to make things better for you. And for _everyone_. Not for me. You can't scold me for trying to follow through with that with the best path to power available to me."

Sylas looks at a loss for words. The first hint of sympathy she has seen from him today slips through, and his broad shoulders slump just-so.

"Little Light," he tries, voice consolingly soft, but cautious like he thinks she might lash out at him for it.

Not that he ever seems to mind much when she does lash out.

Lux lets out a deep, deep exhale.

"This is what I can do for you," she tells him. "This is how I can change things without anyone else dying."

She thinks for a moment that he will finally cave in and say what he's really thinking. But whatever it is that he is holding back, he bites back with a grimace on his face.

***

One of Jarvan's guards stays in the room, this time.

Lux feels as if she could bite her own tongue off by mistake, she is so tense. So unsure of what she can say and what she cannot.

She can read on Jarvan's face that he is keeping secrets, too. She just does not know what they _are_.

She had let herself believe that Garen would not tell a soul, but he had told Jarvan. Then she had trusted that Jarvan would not tell a soul, and now the two of them sit before his guard, who watches Lux with a relaxation on her face that she cannot fathom.

He must understand that with all other guards dismissed, this puts him inside a room of secrets. And with a tragedy so grand and so recent, there's no need to guess at what _sort_ of secret it is.

Lux looks at him and for a moment her heart pleads for his understanding. For a moment she thinks of the way that bodyguards are often advisors, whether they realize it or not. She thinks of the vast differences that can be made by the smallest of nudges to the side. _There's plentiful magic in Ionia, isn't there?_ She thinks. _Magic flowed freely in Noxus, didn't it?_

_The harm can come from anyone, can't it?_

Her attention snaps back to Jarvan as he clears his throat.

"I stand by my initial proposal," He says, with the air of a man who knows this will start a fight he does not want to have.

"Of course you do," Lux murmurs.

"I can't wait on a decision forever."

It's been a matter of _days,_ Lux wants to snap at him, but swallows it back. The flow of time is _always_ strange for royals. Decrees that take years and social messages to the masses that must be spread in an instant.

"Neither can I," she says.

He has the grace to wince, but carries on as if she had not said anything at all. "I'm under pressure from certain counsel—"

"—You can say that it's Auntie Tianna," Lux interrupts. She sees the guard's eyes narrow at her, but refuses to back down. "I know very well who you listen to."

"I'm under pressure from… Certain members of your family," Jarvan concedes. The first smile she has seen from him in a long time is wry and mirthless. "All urging me to follow through, as if I'm the one who disappears every other day and hardly sleeps at home. As if I'm the one avoiding the matter."

"It's not avoidance, I just need time to think. I should be free to choose who I marry for myself."

"As far as your family is concerned, we were past that point."

Her composure splinters; she hears her own voice raise higher; "It's not as if I had even made the choice, then!"

"Is there any choice besides your own safety?"

The question is cutting, and this time Lux is the one to flinch. "I'm invested in more safety than only my own. I'm not so selfish."

"Then are future generations of less value to you?"

Lux refuses to answer; it's an accusation, not a question. She stares at him for a long moment, taking a vindictive pleasure in the increasing tension in his brow. A life of ettiquite training and being taught that others would follow his lead in conversation has left him unprepared for when she does not. 

Instead, after the silence has soaked in, Lux steers the conversation, herself. "Did you know," she says, "that my mother paid a man to cure me of my affliction? A 'doctor'."

Jarvan shakes his head, slow and cautious, as if he thinks she is as prone to laying verbal traps as he is. Lux spares a glance to his guard, but he does not seem surprised by the open mention of her magic. This puts Lux at ease, in a way.

"She did," she continues. "Because we are nobility. Because we have the name and money for discretion."

"It's against our laws—"

"—Money negates laws."

He is beginning to look less mystified when she interrupts him. He watches her, still unwilling to comment each time he thinks he is being guided.

"Being a mage is a life sentence only if you're lowborn. For nobility, it's just a price. But you can't _change_ that there are mages in Demacia, nor can you pretend that they're a threat within these walls by any doing but your own."

Jarvan looks troubled by this, like he cannot reconcile his teachings from such an obvious truth. He begins, "Eventually…" But trails off as Lux rises to her feet. The guard takes a warning step towards her.

"I'm leaving," she says. " _We're_ leaving, but I want you to understand that Demacia is just as much ours as it is anyone else's. Mages are not any less Demacian. We are not any less entitled to its protections and wealth. This is not a matter of saying that Demacia is no longer our home — it still is, and always will be."

"Where will you go?" Jarvan asks, with just a split-second of worry that Lux cannot be sure is even for her.

"I've no reason to tell you."

The guard takes another step closer, but Jarvan raises a hand to signal him to stay back.

"What am I supposed to tell your brother?" Jarvan asks, and Lux is momentarily startled that this is his concern. That he had not asked what to tell Tianna, instead.

She considers the question, staring past him, unwilling to meet his eyes.

"That you forsook me," Lux says, quietly. "That were we strangers, you would let me rot in a prison cell all my life, and that I am not selfish enough to abide by my own personal _luck_ that we are not."

There is another wave of vindication at his obvious frustration. At his desire — and inability — to argue.

The feeling doesn't last long. There is little pleasure in his acceptance of her words as fact. There is no satisfaction in being right in her observations of cruelty.

"Don't come back," he tells her, and Lux is certain he thinks he is being kind in this request.

***

It could be so _simple_ , Lux thinks. This is what makes it devastating.

It should be as simple as marrying the man she was betrothed to, even if for duty more than for love. As simple as a public announcement, decrying the old ways. One parchment of law, signed in by one man who cares for her.

She understands that there would be fear and protest, understands that the larger social issues surrounding this would not fade over night. They would need time. What matters is starting that process as soon as they can instead of praying that it begins in a lifetime after her own.

The twilight-magic of Zoe's hair flutters in the air without a breeze, as colorful as a banner. She is sitting on the station hut's rooftop, playing with toys of starlight and stardust. When Lux approaches, Ezreal is prodding at the beginnings of a fire.

He glances up at her, and the blue of his cheeks seems to pulse with recognition.

They are both so beautiful, Lux thinks. Magical and young and free. And so is _she._ It's a tragedy so vast that she can't wrap her head around the way that people fear this. People lose their freedom and their youth and have to hide their magic in their own homes, holding who they are tightly, tightly in clasped hands like a shameful secret. Even this is only the luxury of those not caught, or of those with money to buy the secrecy of others.

She imagines how wonderful it would be to see magic everywhere you looked. To feel it in the air each time you pass a mage on the street — to exchange comfortable smiles and to be unafraid. It's unbearable knowing that Sylas spent so long locked away for such an inspiring gift.

Lux sees Ezreal's expression contort in vague horror before she even registers the warmth of tears on her cheeks. She wipes at her eyes as his blurred figure rises, then steps hesitantly closer to her.

"Are you - uh, are you alright?"

She opens her mouth to answer, but realizes she isn't sure if she wants to say yes or no.

Ezreal exhales, not like a sigh, but as if in understanding. How _could_ he understand? When he has been free, outside of these walls his whole life? Raised in a city of technology and magic and advancement — a city that respects and honors the unique things each person can do.

Even so, she is comforted by his embrace. He wraps his arms around her tentatively, slow and loose enough for her to pull away at any moment. She finds herself going slack against him, wrapping her arms around him in return and taking solace in his warmth.

She feels him shift slightly, turning his head to look away, but he does not draw back. After a moment, his arms tighten around her, and she feels his cheek against her hair.

Lux thinks of Garen's hand around hers, large and strong and protective. She thinks about how this was as much as he could offer her, and about how this boy who is nearly a stranger has done more for her than her own brother.

When was the last time she cried? It feels childish, but uncontrollable. Her shoulders heave in shudders and she does not bother trying to explain herself. She just holds him, and lets him hold her in return.

She doesn't know how long passes like this. Eventually Zoe comes to them, giving Lux an awkward hug around the waist, then pulling away quickly as if not wanting to admit to her worry. Soon after, Lux is nothing but aftershocks of trembling and a hollow chest as if her heart is starving.

She gives Ezreal one last squeeze, comforted in the way he squeezes back, then draws away from him.

"I'm sorry," she manages, wiping at her eyes one more time. There is a visible damp spot of tears on the shoulder of his shirt that makes her wince.

Ezreal just blinks at her. "Don't be," he says.

He traces his hand down her arm as he steps away, like easing her into the idea of their bodies parting, liking guiding her to follow if she'd like. The sky is dark now, and he grumbles under his breath at the still unlit campfire. Zoe grumbles as well, more loudly, but does not help him to start the fire.

It's only as Lux steps towards the makeshift seats around the fire pit that she notices Sylas, outside of the caverns and leaned against the wall of the station building. He is watching them openly, his face angled away as if he's seen something he shouldn't have, but couldn't quite bring himself not to look from the corner of his eye.

She doesn't know how long he was watching. She does not want him to have seen her tears, but thinks it even worse if all he saw was her drawing back from Ezreal's arms.

Lux gestures for him to join them, and is relieved that he comes to sit beside her.

The night is quiet, heavy with a sort of discomfort that Lux knows is her own fault. Still, it doesn't take long for Ezreal to get the fire going, and Lux enjoys the heat of it on her face and knees. There are breaks in the silence, in time. Zoe and Ezreal whispering to each other about who-knows-what, and the sound of bugs and birds.

Lux is hyper-aware of Sylas beside her. Her mind is quick to remind her of the sturdiness of his arms, and she is too exhausted to resist the impulse to lean against him. She rests her head on his shoulder, soothed by the way that he leans back just so, making room for her to nestle against him more comfortably. 

She does not sleep, sitting upright like this, but her exhaustion brings her so close that she hardly notices that Ezreal and Zoe have long-since left them alone for the night.

It is only Sylas shifting slightly that stirs her. She tries to sit upright, only to be gently guided back with a large hand on the curve of her hip. She laughs lightly, and feels more than she hears the quiet sound Sylas lets out in return.

It's nice to be in the open air. A bit of a risk, but they won't stay out for long. She does not think that anyone will come, but if they do, she is sure they could survive.

All things considered, she is going to have to make peace with the necessity of violence.

"We need to go North," Lux finally says, her voice cracking from disuse and from her earlier crying. "Nothing is going to change unless we do something to change it."

"Good," Sylas says, more eager for this movement than she is. For him it is not turning against friends and family. It is only turning against those who hurt him; he has no need for remorse or guilt or any of the anguish that aches inside of her bones.

Lux is relieved not to have to look him in the eyes when she says: "I tried talking to Jarvan again."

"I take it he wasn't amenable to your brilliance."

"Auntie is in his ear each moment I'm away, I'm sure of it. He won't listen to me over her."

"He'll see the light," Sylas assures her, his voice both low and melodic. "Or he'll perish."

Lux sighs. "That's no comfort to me, Sylas."

"He will change for the better," Sylas says, as if amending himself, "Or he will be overcome."

"Vague words don't change your meaning. He is not just an obstacle to climb over. This is his _life_. He's a person. He's a friend."

"A friend who hates what you are."

"Fears, maybe," Lux concedes. "I don't know. I don't think it's that simple."

"It is," Sylas says, unrelenting. From anyone else, this would make Lux imagine that he had not seen her cry, but from Sylas, she does not think he would tread lightly either way. He is not delicate — he does not treat _her_ like she is delicate. Even when she is.

He moves in a way that makes her sit up straight. Before she can decide whether to look him in the eyes or not, he is guiding her to, gently tipping her chin up. His chains drape heavy over her lap and onto his, an inconvenience that he for once does not carefully keep off of her.

"There is an ignorance forgivable from those not in power, from those not given the option to learn," he says. "But there is no excuse for the swine at the top. For those who know the most, and those who make the decisions for all to abide by."

There is always such a mix of kindness and cruelty in Sylas's eyes. He is harder to understand than the people she is used to dealing with, and she wants to look away, but does not want to leave his touch.

"He would know you and still condemn you," Sylas asserts, "This is not friendship."

"You would do the same if I disagreed with you too strongly," Lux murmurs. "Saying something as if it's so black-and-white shows that our relationships sits in delicate balance of opinion, too."

"Our relationship," Sylas repeats, sounding amused.

Lux is too drained to feel shy about it, too exhausted to flush and fret. She pulls away from him, sitting up straight.

"Regardless, I'm on your side," she says. "Your flaws don't mean that you aren't right."

He does not return the sentiment and announce that he is on her side, too, but she had not expected him to. Maybe he is just beyond such idealisms. He does not anger at the insult, either. Instead he rises, and offers her a hand.

"You should rest, Little Light. If we're to travel North, there's much to do. You'll need your energy."

Lux takes his hand and smiles wearily. "Someday you're going to sleep in the most comfortable bed in all of Demacia."

"Oh?"

"Surrounded by pillows. So plush you won't be able to get up if you try. That will be your new cage of comfort."

***

This time, sharing the bedroll is no act of haste and paranoia. The way that they prepare for sleep together is slow and methodical. Lux's every movement is tinged with a certain shyness, but Sylas remains unfazed. In a way, it is relaxing that he does not amplify her tension with his own.

When they have laid down together, he traces the shape of her face in the dark, where it is impossible to see what expression this brings from him.

"What of your 'relationship' with the traveler?" He asks her. There is no give to tell her why he asks. Perhaps just simple curiosity. She won't let herself get her hopes up.

"A friendship," Lux whispers. "A comradery."

His silence sets a fire inside her heart, crackling with a desperation to be understood. If he saw them hug and nothing else — suddenly, much stronger than before, she feels the need to clarify to him.

"That's all," she blurts out, knowing it is abrupt. "That's all we are, and all I want us to be."

He chuckles under his breath; it sends a shiver up Lux's spine.

"There's no need to assure me. I know what's mine."

Lux wills her heart not to race for this. She isn't a possession to be spoken for, and the corners of her lips meet his thumb as she frowns. She leans into his palm and does not bother telling him not to speak this way.

She had said she was on his side and she had meant it.

She's in no rush to lie. She loves him. Even this part of him, egocentric and indelicate, entitled to things far beyond what he is owed. He has never been _given_ what he is owed in his entire life, Lux supposes, so he has learned to take it for himself. To demand it, to feel possessive of it.

She feels his breath on her lips. When she opens her eyes again, it makes no difference at all. She can't see a thing in the pitch black. There is a tornado in her chest, a windstorm in all the space that has felt hollowed out by the day, as if everything had been clearing the space for this.

She hears and feels the smallest shift of fabric. Clenches her eyes shut again. They are not touching but she can feel that he is leaning closer.

But Lux does not want to lie to herself, either. His possessiveness is not love. What he wants from her may go hand in hand with affection, but it is not _love_ he feels for her or seeks from her.

She is not so desperate that she would let herself be hurt by this, that she would accept only scraps.

Her love is valuable. She does not want to treat it like something cheap.

Lux has spent her whole life surrounded by others, hiding away from them in plain sight. She has had her pick of who to fall in love with, and she cannot say _why_ her affections have fallen where they have, but she knows that it was not for lack of options. Sylas, though. Sylas has known nothing but cruelty since he was a child.

Lux barely feels the first brush of lips against hers before she pulls back from him. She is met with such a quiet sound of surprise that she almost does not hear it at all.

Gingerly, she turns to face the other way. "Good night, Sylas," she says, not unkindly.

She does not hear him chuckle this time so much as she feels it ripple through his body, still unavoidably close to hers. Even in the face of rejection, that possessiveness of his is unscathed.

The last thought she has before sleep takes her is: _I am going to die for this idiot and I won't even kiss him._

***

There's no turning back.

The idea of retreat crosses Lux's mind with a desperation that surges with each freezing gust of wind, but it always ebbs away like a receding wave. Lux knows that if she tried to turn back now, she would freeze before getting even halfway back. 

It's just the two of them, now. Of course it is. Ezreal and Zoe had been fine companions in camping, but they were never truly allies in war. Lux would never even ask.

She tries to draw warmth from memory — from Ezreal's final embrace before they had left. His flushed cheeks and the way he'd opened his mouth to say something, then glanced to Sylas and thought better of it. He had held her hands and wished her well. Even Zoe had given her a quick hug and a "Good luck."

She tries to draw color from their nights by the fireplace. From the twilight in Zoe's hair that shined with starlight, and Ezreal's cheeks that glowed like the sea. The crackling flames, glinting off of golden chains.

In the mountains it is all white. Blinding light, refracting sunlight and moonlight equally. A biting wind that makes her squint, that whips her hair in her eyes and threatens to pull down the hood of her cloak.

Lux wraps her arms tight around herself. Her shivers are so violent and her jaw clenched so tightly that it aches even through the numbness. She refuses to complain. Silently, she watches the way the snow is left parted for her in Sylas's wake, grateful and guilty for it in equal measure. She watches his back, close enough for her to reach out and touch.

 _We're going to die,_ Lux thinks.

Then again, the words repeating in her head rhythmically. With every step: _We're going to die. We're going to die. We're going to die._

There is no room for regrets, or for longing. There are only flickers of those daydream wishes — that she had taken Jarvan's proposal, or even left this fantasy behind to wander with Ezreal. But she dispels them before they can take place, before they can settle in her mind or heart.

 _We're going to die,_ she thinks, watching the methodical heave of Sylas's whole body with each heavy lurch forward. _We're going to die,_ she thinks, dragging one foot in front of the other.

She doesn't know how long the mantra lasts before the hysteria takes over, but it floods her whole body. Suddenly she feels pin-pricks all over, feels like she is burning up yet still completely frozen. There is a limitation that she has passed, and the cold becomes unbearable, unlivable. In the clench of her gut she feels maggots eating her hollow.

Lux has never expected their revolution to begin and end with them. Not like Sylas does. Lux knows that Jarvan was not entirely right, but she also knows that he was not entirely wrong. Change takes time. As infuriating as it is, and unjust as it is, change takes more than one generation.

So when Lux thinks of dying, and her mind races, asking: _What have I left unfinished? What do I regret not having done?_ It is not any of _this_ that comes to mind.

In fact, nothing comes to mind. That terrifies her.

"Sylas," she chokes out, voice cracking like fragile ice, too quiet to hear over the wind.

She watches his back as he keeps moving.

She doesn't want to die here, but she does not even know _why_. Somehow, this fills her with just as much terror. Shouldn't she have dreams, goals, aspirations? Regrets? _Anything_? She can't think of one single thing. It's a fear for fear's sake, and all she can think to do is helplessly try to convey it.

"Sylas," she tries again, louder. She can hear the edge in her own voice.

Sylas tilts his head, just barely, the only tell that he heard her this time. Then he straightens again, ignoring her. It hollows out her chest in a way she didn't think was possible anymore, giving way to an ache couldn't have imagined worsening in this cold.

He ignores her and trudges on. Step by dragging step, pushing snow out of their way. Lux feels her breath coming short. Her heart races painfully. She's about to try for his attention again, about to reach out and grab him because if she's going to die, she at least wants him to _acknowledge_ that she is here with him, first. To acknowledge that she is in agony for him.

Sylas falls before she gets the chance. She throws her hand out — and her fingers don't quite reach him as he collapses forward out of her reach.

Lux understands, suddenly, that it was not her own strength that kept her upright longer than him. It was that he had made her path easier by leading it.

She rushes forward to his side, forcing her magic out of herself so hard that it makes her double over with him. Just as well; she leans over his body, pressing as much of herself against him as she can, willing her body heat to do _something,_ no matter how little. Her light melts the snow around them, but beneath it is nothing but frozen stone, and that's no better. She pulls light into her palms and forces her way beneath his clothes to press her hands against his skin, touching his arms as if she could massage the heat into him.

It isn't enough. She has not even been able to muster the magic to keep herself warm, let alone the both of them. It's only adrenaline and panic bringing out the light and she knows it will subside, and when it does they will be at the mercy of the mountain.

What scares her the most is his face — his expression relaxed more in unconsciousness than she ever sees it awake.

She shakes him, begging her magic for more warmth. She thinks about the exercise he taught her and tries to visualize the sun, but can't hold onto the thought.

"Get up. We can go further. I'll help you — I'll use my magic to clear the snow, but we can't stop."

She's talking to an unconscious man, making promises she can't keep. Her voice is breaking again, but this time it isn't from disuse. Her breath is coming out uneven and she knows that's a bad sign, but she can't do anything about it.

She doesn't even register the words called to her from a short distance away.

Not until the woman comes closer, repeating them louder. Even then, Lux doesn't know the language.

All she can do is hold Sylas, hold back her tears, and beg the woman with her last breath: "Please — please help us."

***

The darkness takes her, then, almost like a comfort. Like finally getting to rest and be unburdened. She closes her eyes and he world is quiet and finally warm.

Then the agony of movement, of being ripped painfully from her sleep by Sylas's body jolting out from under her.

Yelling from the woman, from others behind her, and from Sylas. So much movement that it is lost to her in the snowstorm, so much noise that she only wishes for quiet so she might go back to sleep and sink back into the warm.

She hears the sound of Sylas's snarled words through a ringing in her ears; feels his body hunched over hers until the dark comes back again.

***

There is a light behind her eyelids. Red and orange. The sound of a fire.

For a fleeting moment, Lux wonders if she had dreamed their journey into the mountains — if she had simply dozed off by the campfire. The cold had been a nightmare that now feels unreal for how completely it has left her.

It's the smell that snaps her back into reality. The scent of wood burning and of snow and ice. The frost taints the scent of earth and wood in a particular way that Lux cannot mistake, in a way that smells nothing like home.

She is laying in a soft bed, low to the ground, covered by warm furs and — with a body, beside her.

Lux sits up suddenly, her eyes snapping open to the dizzying, blinding brightness of a barely-lit room. Her hands fly to Sylas beside her, feeling his pulse at his neck, then hurriedly tracing her hands down his bare chest to search for injuries.

It is only after she has made sure he is uninjured, that his breathing is even, that Lux realizes two things. The first, that she is undressed, with the blanket pooled in her lap. The second, that they are not alone in the room.

The woman seated across the room has a spear in her hand, but her grip looks weak. Lux does not want to judge a book by its cover, but she looks tired and cold, as if recovering from an illness. Even so, she looks amused, and says, "You're awake," with a thick accent that Lux cannot place.

Lux slowly reaches for the blanket, pulling it back up to cover her breasts.

She looks around the room. The walls and floor are laid in stone, sturdy and cold. There is firewood by the fireplace, stacked tidily, and what look like empty crates and barrels shoved to the back wall. The room is vast, but empty, as if meant for storage. The floor stretches on, nearly barren, with no carpeting or decoration save for what appears to be a second fire-place, far from the walls. A hovel for a bathtub to be placed on, if Lux had to guess. It's much to large to serve a simple cauldron or a kettle.

There are no windows.

The woman is watching her, expectantly.

"Yes," Lux says cautiously. The memory of this woman is vague and blurry, but Lux does remember seeing her before blacking out. She breathes: "You saved us."

The woman takes a long moment to respond. As if this is not quite the truth. Her brow furrows and her eyes drift to Sylas. She stares at him for a long moment, then looks back up to Lux with a furrowed brow. "Yes," she says, simply.

Lux can tell there is something more to this, but she will not look at her salvation with suspicion.

"The two of you — you're stupid," the woman eventually observes. She is frowning, not with anger or concern, Lux thinks, but with habit.

Lux can only nod. "We're desperate."

The woman's expression sours like she doesn't know the word.

"In need," Lux tries.

The woman nods with caution.

Lux begins, "We're here for—"

"—Not now," the woman interrupts. She mutters something — something in a tongue that Lux has never heard before. Even the rhythm of the words is foreign. "Tomorrow."

She leaves them alone, then. Taking her spear with her, she leaves the small room without another word, the wooden door slamming shut and locking behind her.

But Lux is alive. She cannot complain about the hospitality when she is alive, warmed by the fire and furs.

  
Alone in the room, Lux traces a hand down Sylas's chest once more. She is already soothed that he is alive and well, and now has no excuse. Even so, she traces over scars with a fascination, distracting herself from overthinking the uncertainty of this situation.

She feels his breath stutter as her fingers brush over the x-shaped scar on his abdomen. When she glances up to his face, his eyes are open, watching her with a plain curiosity.

There is a moment of stillness between them.

Then she throws her arms around him as he pulls himself upright. She feels him tense, then wrap his arms around her in return. It's a heavy sensation, still weighted by his shackles and chains that dig uncomfortably into her back. But he holds her tightly, not carefully, as she shakes through tearless sobs of relief, as she holds him more closely than she should.

"Lux," he says, and for once sounds almost at a loss for words. His composure so rarely fractures, but she can tell that her crying leaves him at a loss. Or perhaps he is as overwhelmed by their survival as she is, in his own way.

"I was scared," Lux whispers. "You fell, and I—"

"—I got back up," he says, voice low and reassuring.

Lux shudders, distraught at even the vague memory of his collapse, and he holds her tighter against him.

"Stealing that woman's magic was our salvation," Sylas says, and he turns his head as if to assess the locked door. "Not her, or her people."

"And what have you taken from her?"

"A resistance to the cold, of some kind."

Lux breathes in deep with her face pressed to his neck, where his skin warms hers. She exhales. "That theft would only save your own life. And the fact that you weren't killed for taking it puts us in their debt. The fact that you took anything at all."

"I suppose," he says, with no sincerity at all.

"We are here to make allies," Lux reminds him, arms still wrapped tight around him.

It occurs to her that this is a strange direction for the conversation to go, in this position. She wants to spend more time luxuriating in his health, more time in caring for him before turning to plans and strategy.

She realizes belatedly that her bare breasts are pressed to his chest, and that their state of undress extends below the blankets as well.

Lux flinches back from him, grasping at the blankets and tugging them up more clumsily than she had for the Northern woman.

Though he lets go of her, Sylas still follows the motion as she leans back, keeping his body close to hers as if drawn by a leash. His hand beneath the blanket comes to rest at her hip, holding onto her skin with a confident grip, as if it is the most natural thing in the world. As if holding onto her flesh is nothing new to him, and the way is feels in his grip nothing special.

"Calm," he tries to soothe her. His lips are inches from her. She can feel his every breath in the air between them.

He gives her hip a squeeze and she feels as if she could melt, as if her mind is swimming weakly against a strong current to reach coherency. Her whole body feels hot and cold at the same time, like she is still in the ice, like she is closer to the fire. The world briefly fades away, and there is such relief in this, beneath the layer of fear that won't leave her.

Just when she thinks she could regain her composure, his kiss steals it back away.

She doesn't understand how chapped lips can feel so soft. How her whole body can feel warm, yet his touch is hot enough to light a spark inside of her anyway. Lux imagines prismatic light between them where their lips slot together, like each breath between them is aglow with magic and sunlight.

He presses his mouth to hers like he could devour her. Lux has never kissed anyone before, but it comes naturally to her to part her lips with his, to tilt her head for him. He is alive, he is alive, he is alive, and she breathes this in with relief and the lingering shadow of anxiety. She loves him so much that her heart aches with it.

She finds herself dropping the blanket to touch her palms to his chest, comforted by the firmness of it beneath her fingers. Comforted that his skin is no longer cold as ice. His hand at her hip slides up her side, up along her ribs, and her heart quickens in anticipation. He stops there, beneath her breast, and her breath flutters. Impatience pulses inside her like a shameful secret wanting to be let out, like hidden magic that can't be contained.

Reality does not crash down upon her, nor does the realization that this is only a creature-comfort to him after nearly losing his life. Instead it comes as a gentle understanding, washing over her like a shallow wave. Remembering is only a matter of slowly wading deeper into the obvious differences between her love and his touch.

When his body moves closer to her, Lux keeps her hands firmly where they are, blocking his movement. Then slowly, gently, she pushes him back from her. He allows himself to be steered back without resisting.

Lux feels dazed, like she had dozed off to a pleasantly realistic dream, and now is trying to reorient herself to reality again.

He has not let go of her, his hand still resting on her rib. She feels small in his grip — not fragile, but acutely aware of the shape of her own body.

"No," Lux murmurs.

Sylas pulls back from her, withdrawing his touch and leaving her cold without it. "No," he repeats, contemplative and nothing more.

Lux says, quietly, "I love you, and you've made it clear you know this. But I won't allow you to treat me like a convenience of proximity."

His whole body shifts away, like a barrier going up between them. He straightens, but his eyes stay locked on her in an icy, sidelong stare. He does not look _angry_ at least, but she cannot place the expression on his face.

She pulls the blanket back up to cover herself once more. She cannot meet his eyes, as much as she wants to drink in the sight of him. She forces a firm expression onto her face, trying to exude confidence in herself even as she tears her gaze away to stare at the wall.

Lux does not know what to do with the way the quiet drags on, uncomfortably. The stone walls offer her no guidance. Suddenly, he feels terribly distant from her.

He was the one who had insisted her love had too much value to be manipulated by others. To say that and then cheapen their friendship — she is the one who deserves to feel bitter. But she thinks of how long he had spent in that prison cell, and she thinks of how long he had gone without any kind of touch before she came along, and it is impossible to not feel some shade of pity.

"I'm still just as much on your side," she offers, an olive branch. "I'm _always_ on your side, Sylas."

He laughs, then. She doesn't understand the abruptness of it, or the way he looks at her, for once, like she is a fool.

"I know, Little Light. Get dressed."

***

When the time comes, explaining their circumstances is a brutal affair.

The woman who had rescued them — though unwillingly, an act swayed entirely by Sylas's theft of her magic — is Lady Thorva. She is the only one in the room that speaks their language, and her knowledge of it is a shallow well to draw from. But even weak luck is more luck than Lux had expected, and it's bolstered by the respect she seems to command in the room.

The one truly in charge is Scarmother Vrynna; a woman with a harsh sort of beauty, whose greying hair is as lovely on her as the battle-scars. Still, the harshness of her gaze makes it difficult for Lux not to flinch each time she is looked at.

Lux knows that she must project authority and power. No one wants to help the losing side of a conflict. She feels out of place in borrowed, heavy clothing, but knows that it is a kindness not to be taken for granted. The same way that she knows that all the warriors stationed in the room they convene in are not an empty threat.

They regard her and Sylas not fearfully, but with a deep apprehension. Lux barely remembers the conflict at all, but she's sure having your magic torn from your body leaves an impression. When Sylas takes her magic it is in increments — she feels as if she could never run out, and the thought of it is enough to send a shiver up her spine. But from what she has gathered, Lady Thorva's recovery has taken time.

Lux wishes _desperately_ that she could understand the words the two women exchange. What they are saying when they look from Sylas to her. What conclusions they are drawing from his shackles and scars. She hears the same couple of words again and again, but does not know what they mean.

Beyond her anxiousness, there is some small amusement in the way that Sylas steps forward to speak, only to be nearly ignored and talked over. From the start, they have more interest in speaking to Lux. She supposes this makes sense for a community led by women.

It becomes even clearer when Lady Thorva refers to Sylas as Lux's _serf_.

"Oh, no, no," Lux begins, then startles as Sylas lets out a bark of indignant laughter.

"We are equals," he announces, loudly. Until this comment, perhaps, he had thought playing into their matriarchal culture was the best strategy. Being mistaken for her serf, Lux knows, is too insulting for him to let slide. "And we serve no one."

"You are in chains," Lady Thorva points out, arching an eyebrow.

Lux glances his way, then repeats, firmly, "This injustice is why we must fight. We are equals."

Lady Thorva's expression does not show any hint of belief. But she turns to the Scarmother to speak, and the two of them exchange words for a long moment, steeped with an obvious condescension.

Lux does not let her frown deepen. The desire to clear up any misconceptions they have is superfluous, but that doesn't make it lessen. Almost to distract herself, Lux says: "We can offer trade. And land, to the North of the walls, once we are in power."

It takes Lady Thorva time to parse this, then she replies, "The North is already ours."

"Then make it official," Lux says. "Allow us to make our own people acknowledge it too fearfully to object."

Lady Thorva stares, and Lux cannot tell if it is because of the language barrier or a simple disapproval.

"Make it agreed on," Sylas amends for her, regardless. "So it won't be challenged."

She cannot tell if a single thing they say is getting through, let alone swaying the Scarmother. Her glare never lightens, her brow never relaxes. It feels like an agonizing eternity, waiting quietly for judgment.

There is a flicker of surprise at something Lady Thorva says; something that fills the hall with murmurs and forces Lux to fight the impulse to whirl all around her to place each one. Then the Scarmother's glare is back on them.

Lady Thorva smirks like she has won something when she says, "Prove you are worth fighting with. We raid in two days time."

"It's our honor," Sylas says, surprisingly pliant, and Lux glances over to watch him. "To serve and be served."

Lux knows that low tone he speaks in; she watches the particular quirk of his lips as he and Lady Thorva exchange a look of shared amusement.

Lady Thorva repeats, "We'll see," with a clear interest that makes Lux feel like an intruder. It makes her feel uncomfortable to be in the room at all, in a sudden, visceral way.

She watches Sylas's gaze track the older woman, and lets out a quiet breath. She was right to say no to him. She was right that he touches her out of convenience, out of availability.

Good, then, that perhaps there is someone else to fill that role. Good.

***

Their hospitality surprises Lux. The land is harsh and unforgiving, and she can tell that the people are, too. But the two of them are still given what they need. A room. A fireplace. Enough food that they don't starve.

A locked door with guards. Lux can't blame them for this precaution.

It isn't terribly concerning, because stone and wood could keep them caged if they had any desire to escape. It's only fair to try to guard them, at any rate. They have reason to fear Sylas, with the shackles of a convict and having seen the way he steals magic.

It occurs to Lux, though, that they know nothing of what she can do. So what is it that they are expecting from her in the raid?

"To have our worth proven by raiding another community," Lux says, the night before, "makes it feel as if we've chosen wrong."

Sylas glances her way from where he is seated by the fire. "There was no choice in the matter."

"Is that better? We begged for help from the first people we saw."

"We were at their mercy."

"And their mercy was not what saved us."

He doesn't have a quick retort for this, for his own words thrown back at him, and frowns as he seems to mull it over. Lux comes to sit beside him, not cold enough to want the fire's warmth but feeling self-indulgent. She does not know what danger awaits them tomorrow.

She sighs. "In the bigger picture, this is a good deal. Whether they are wrong or right, to sign away territory that we rarely venture to begin with… To secure trade… Those bring us a high reward at low cost."

Sylas watches her, knowing she has more to say, prompting it with a curt nod.

Lux stares into the bright-burning fire. "I don't like to imagine my morality as something that extends only as far as the walls around Demacia. I don't like to imagine assisting a tribe that would hurt another."

"It's a matter of responsibility," Sylas says. When she steals a glance, his eyes are on the flame, the reflection of embers flickering within. "You can't be responsible for everything. For everyone. You're only one woman. You only belong to Demacia."

His eyes slicing over to her gives her a jump.

"Perhaps," she concedes. She turns the words over in her mind, as if looking for a scratch on a smooth and shiny pebble. "Rulers are always trying to manage these sorts of situations, aren't they? Balancing what's best for the people you represent with the weight of the resources you need."

"Most rulers don't rule with benevolence," Sylas scoffs. "Most rulers don't think twice about who they demand help from nor who they hurt in the exchange."

She bites her cheek lightly to keep from huffing at him. She doesn't even know what she would say, but there is still a part of her that longs to defend Jarvan in the way that she wishes he would defend her.

Sylas adds, lightly, "They don't rule their _own_ people with kindness, let alone considering what harm they do to outsiders through alliance."

"I'll be different," Lux murmurs.

There is a frown on Sylas's lips. "The structure of royalty is not designed for your heart."

Her frown matches his, and the both of them turn towards the fire as if to alleviate themselves from facing each other in disagreement. Lux cannot tell if it is the flames or her own frustration that make her feel uncomfortably hot.

"What do you mean?" Lux asks eventually, trying not to sound as affronted as she feels.

"That a broken system will continue to fail, no matter who replaces the swine at the top of it."

"What did you think was going to happen?" Lux whispers.

"We dismantle the monarchy, leaving no rulers. No kings."

She looks at him sidelong, and is surprised he does not look back. He's lying; she knows he is. She knows him too well to think he doesn't lust for power.

He just doesn't want to admit it. His beliefs and emotions are in conflict — in the precise way that he accuses all rulers of succumbing to as if he's any different.

Lux does not think that all revolutionaries are as such. But he is. She is.

"No," Lux says, quiet but firm. She looks away before he can catch her gaze. "I think a day could someday come where we don't need rulers. I think you're right that the system breeds injustice, and no amount of compassionate leadership can change the core of these structures."

Sylas pauses. "And yet," he says, with an understanding free of judgment.

Lux could not have fathomed being understood and accepted so wholly before they met. Not by anyone. Her love blossoms in her heart, and she feels her face flush with it. She rests her hand over his, feeling how warm its been made by the fire, how warm it is simply because he is Sylas, full of his own flames and fury.

And a hypocrisy, no different from her own.

"And yet," Lux agrees.

***

The raid goes well. They take by force the few luxuries of the mountain; meat and fur, and other resources that Lux does not entirely understand the significance of but vows to learn when she is able. (It will be necessary, after all, for her to understand what trade is valuable when she is a ruler.)

People are hurt — mostly those from the other tribe. Lux tells herself that this would happen with or without her presence, that she and Sylas have not swayed the tide so strongly.

Some people escape. Lux does not hesitate to let her magic burst, blindingly bright, to let them run in the chaos. She races through the excuses she would give in her mind — that those who run leave behind all they had to offer. Taking their lives too does not benefit anyone. Alive, they may gather and hunt more to be stolen again.

Lux remembers, belatedly, that the language barrier means that she would probably not be heard out at all.

But if any suspicion is raised, it is buried and hidden, and they return to the settlement exhausted, but proud, with a familiar sort of cheer that Lux remembers from the Demacian military. Even if she had always felt alone in the crowd, the nostalgia is still powerful.

It is a day spent using her magic. Letting it burst and having that danger respected and rewarded instead of feared. Someday, Lux thinks, this will be the way everyone reacts. They will see her magic for what it is: power in the hands of the just. Power that fights for them.

***

In the evening, they feast.

As far as feasts go, it is somewhat meager, but Lux imagines this is in part because of her and Sylas's presence at the table. She can't blame them; they have been feeding her well enough that she sees the gesture for what it is. A reward for outsiders within their means.

The wooden table stretches long, and Lux only recognizes a few of the women seated. Conversation flows all around them, and this time Lady Thorva makes no effort to include them. Lux doesn't mind; she appreciates the gesture of the meal too much to fuss over missing out on slow, useless conversations that both are sure to barely understand.

Instead, she and Sylas sit quietly, eating and listening with as much interest as one can muster for a language they don't speak.

Lux takes a sip of her wine and realizes that the goblet is finally empty. She glances over to Sylas, and the full goblet before him.

"It would be rude to refuse the gift," she murmurs.

"It would be rude to take advantage," he counters.

Lux hesitates. She isn't so naïve that she believes the people of the North would all follow the same precise social rules that she is used to, but it still doesn't sit well with her to leave alone what's been offered.

"It's good to be a… Conscientious guest," Lux says, the words feeling silly on her tongue. It's certainly an over-simplification. "But consider what it looks like if you don't take the food and drink you're given. They may think you believe yourself above it."

His lips pull thin. "I don't drink."

"And I've never had anything more than a glass of wine in my life, but this is a kindness being offered when we make burden of ourselves. When we ask for their work before we can offer payment. Be grateful."

"They wanted me to prove myself in battle and I did. What needs proving at dinner?"

Lux wants to roll her eyes. His obstinacy is almost childish, sometimes. "When you're a ruler? Plenty. At any rate, you understand that it sends the message that you feel unsafe letting your guard down? It's a show of open distrust."

He is quiet for too long; if she didn't know him so well she might think he was genuinely considering her words. Instead she knows this: He knows that she is right, and he is trying to think of a retort that does not confirm or deny this.

Sylas does not feel shame for being distrustful of others. He does not value the hierarchies that expect his trust while offering none back. Lux can't fault him for this, when she thinks about his reasons.

She wonders if he has reasons for not wanting to drink, too. It surprises her, if she's honest. He is usually quick to soak himself in the pleasures he's been denied.

He gives her a scolding look, which makes his eventual concession all the more amusing. Sylas drinks the wine as he continues the meal. It must not be the taste he dislikes, Lux thinks, because once he begins drinking, he does not seem to think much of it. He even allows others to refill his drink more than once.

***

Several times, in fact.

***

  
Lux is fairly sure that Sylas is only humoring her, letting her support him under one arm as they make their way back to their quarters. If he put any more of his body weight on her she'd collapse beneath it in an instant. Even knowing she's taking on so little weight, it's still a struggle to take each step, to get him through the door to their room. 

Inside, she steers him towards the bed. It isn't like what she's used to — it's no four-frame canopy. But it's warm and soft, and that is what matters. It is absolutely nothing to look down on. Except for that it is, physically, something to look down on.

Lux tries to guide Sylas to sit; the drop from where they stand to he bed on the floor is too far to just let him fall in good conscience.

He only leans closer to her. He drapes his other arm over her shoulders, reaching with both his hands to hold the chains up off of her back. It's sweet, in a way. She appreciates the sentiment enough to forgive the alcohol on his breath.

He leans in, and then that breath is hot against her neck.

"Little Light," he murmurs against her throat. She thinks she can feel his lips against her frozen skin, burning her up and making her shiver.

"Don't be difficult," she tells him.

"I'm not," he argues easily, and almost sounds sober. Except one of his hands has come to cradle the back of her head, fingers slipping through her hair and pressing gentle against her scalp.

She isn't afraid of Sylas, not like she once was when he was still a stranger behind bars. But she's sure the best thing to do is to let him down gently. Both physically and metaphorically.

Even if it's not what she wants to do.

He's just drunk, she reminds herself. He is drunk, and understandably starved for touch. She doubts he would regret it in the morning, but she does not think her own heart could take it if nothing were to change. She does not think anything would change.

She returns his affection with her own; with a very pointed hug. She wraps her arms around to his back and gives a gentle squeeze. It gives them both an out. Gives them a cover, gives them an ending.

Drunken affection, appreciated and returned. As dear friends should do.

Just a moment with her face pressed against his collar, and then they will disengage and be proper. Just a moment with Sylas petting her hair, carefully keeping strands from catching in his shackles by threading them between his fingers.

But his free hand moves to her waist, twisting to keep the chains against the back of his hand as his palm presses into the curve of her spine. He pulls her closer to him, and she is acutely aware of the hard press of his chest against hers.

Despite the discomfort, it's still torture to leave the embrace behind as she pulls away. She can only pray her face doesn't show how fast her heart is pounding; at the very least, the layers for warmth were good for this — for keeping him from feeling that off-rhythm heartbeat through her skin into his.

Even drunk, he doesn't let his guard down enough to look openly confused. But he does stare her down with a calculating expression, like the rejection is something he doesn't understand. She feels his fingers trace up and down against her back as he puzzles it out.

Is it that he expects her to throw herself at him, or simply that he doesn't understand the value she places in those feelings, the _reason_ she does not want to act on them unrequited?

"If that's what you're after, you should visit Lady Thorva tonight," Lux says, as kindly as she can. He opens his mouth, and she dreads whatever he will say, dreads hearing him accept her suggestion so much that she hastily adds, "I wouldn't — be offended. You know. If you did seek her company. She seems fond of you, and we _are_ here to foster good relations. It would be… Beneficial. In a way."

She's just stalling.

He lets her, leveling her with a surprisingly patient look in the brief pause before she blurts out, speaking quickly, "Not that — not that it would have to be beneficial to us in the long-term for me to approve of it. As long as it isn't _harmful_ to anything. And not that you would need my approval to begin with."

Her face feels hot, and it's surprisingly unwelcome despite the cold all around them. She wants to climb under the blankets and hide away until this is not a moment she is in, but just an embarrassing memory.

She realizes, belatedly, that he is still finger-combing her hair.

"Alright," he murmurs, voice low and achingly agreeable.

He lets her go.

Then carefully sits down on the edge of the bed. Lux watches him with uncertainty as he takes off his shoes.

"Alright?" Lux repeats.

He shrugs off his cloak next; it takes him a moment to work around the shackles. 

"I don't touch without permission," he says, neutrally.

She does not point out that he does so all the time. Instead she retorts, without thinking, "I imagine you haven't touched with _or_ without permission for years."

She realizes how callous this comment is a moment too late. She's being petty with a jealousy that she brought upon herself.

She wonders if Sylas would still be so unbothered, sober. He just leans back, resting his weight on his arms, and smirks. "I still have a preference."

"A 'preference' for permission is an alarming way of phrasing it," Lux points out. Her eyes trace down his chest. It's only when she realizes how long she's been staring that she registers what matters. That he isn't going anywhere. Given her explicit rejection, then permission to seek the company of another, he chose to stay.

"They've called me a monster and treated me as one, but _you_ know that it's not true. So come, get changed for bed. It's a luxury not to be wasted. You'll miss it when we return home."

Lux swallows, and for the first time since they arrived, takes the generosity of their hosts for granted. If they could have two rooms — even just two _beds_ in one room… Then she could have avoided the discomfort of being watched while she undresses.

Lux peels off her fur cloak, then the shawl from beneath it. Layer by layer, she undresses, doing her best to maintain her modesty.

There's only so much that she can do with Sylas unabashedly watching her.

"You don't touch without permission," Lux mutters, pulling her nightgown over her head, "But you certainly have no qualms with staring."

Sylas agrees, contentedly, "No. I don't. I've been denied beauty too long; allow me this."

Her face feels hot again, but she has no choice but to power-through the embarrassment.

Even indoors, even in rooms warmed by fire, warm clothing is necessary in the Freljord. Her nightgown isn't enough, and Lux is eager to get beneath the blankets.

She holds them up for Sylas too as she climbs beneath them, and he comes to lay beside her. He leaves a careful space between them, true to his word, and for a long moment they stay this way. Staring at each other in a room much too well-lit for sleep, but both tired from exertion and being well-fed.

Lux watches his chest rise and fall with every breath, the comfort of seeing that just as soothing as the weight of the blankets. Her own breathing regulates with his without a conscious thought, following the same pattern.

Sylas breathes in, then out. In, then out. His chest expands, then falls. Expands, then falls.

She wants to touch him.

His eyes are on hers when she looks back up to his face.

Sylas reaches one hand out, careful to angle his chains so that they don't touch her. He cups her cheek, stroking his thumb at the corner of her mouth. Somehow, this has become a familiar habit of theirs. Somehow, it still makes her whole body tingle.

"I didn't give you permission," Lux whispers, lips catching just the edge of his thumb.

"You don't need to. I know what you want."

She shivers, although she is not cold anymore. He's hypocritical; she's always known that.

"What do I want?" She asks.

His thumb runs over her bottom lip. She wets her lips self-consciously, and feels how smoothly his thumb glides across on its next pass over, almost like he wants to push inside her mouth. She imagines the taste of his skin on her tongue, imagines closing her lips around him.

"To not have to ask."

She has to fight back another shiver when he draws his hand away from her mouth. But she appreciates the weight of it coming to rest at the curve of her hip; the care with which he keeps his shackles off of her.

His hand runs up and down along her side, firm enough not to tickle, but only just.

Lux closes her eyes and exhales.

She holds her breath when he reaches the hem of her nightgown. His fingers slip beneath it, touching her thigh, then paused with caution. Testing. Waiting to be told no.

She does not say anything at all. Even when Sylas draws himself up, moving between her legs and looking up at her with another silent ask for permission.

Her face is burning up. With the blanket lifted from her like this, it's no shelter from the cold at all. But her whole body is on fire. She is too embarrassed to meet his eyes and tilts her head away to avoid it.

But she twists, moving to lay on her back. She thinks of blaming the wine she had drank, but knows it isn't enough. There's no excuse for this, she thinks, but takes comfort in Sylas's words. She hasn't asked. She does not have to take responsibility for asking, for wanting, for going against her own word. They are each hypocrites — but he takes the weight of it for them both.

She hears him chuckle, the sound of it low and gravelly. Then feels his hands on her inner thighs as he shifts down further.

He holds her legs apart, a hand holding each thigh; she likes the firmness of his grip. The way his fingers sink into her flesh. The guidance of it is soothing, even if the very edges of his shackles press against her in a way they cannot avoid.

His breath tickles her inner thighs before he presses down the first kiss. She giggles despite herself, but the embarrassment of this is washed away by the way he laughs under his breath in return, as if endeared.

Of course he is, Lux thinks. Sylas always looks at her with adoration. Even the parts of her that she's been taught are shameful. Her moments of immaturity, her moments of uncertainty — and the bitter, callous parts of her that she's always denied as carefully as her own magic.

He kisses her thigh with wet lips and hot breath that blooms out until she can feel it warming her through her underwear. She shifts in place, impatient for something she doesn't quite understand. A desire swells up in her, a flame he stokes with unhurried kiss after kiss.

Then a bite on her inner thigh, soft, but lightning up her spine. Lux whimpers, finally giving in and allowing herself to arch up against him.

She hears him hum with amusement. This might annoy her if he didn't also concede.

When he draws back, it is only to make sure he is ever-careful of his shackles. He slips his fingers into her underwear at each side, and she lets him tug them down and toss them aside.

She can't fight the impulse to cover herself, tugging her nightgown down. She wishes, suddenly, that the room were darker.

"Don't hide," Sylas commands, and then his lips are on her inner thigh once more. Firmer, now, and she feels his stubble scratch light. She feels his warm breath bounce until it's a wave washing over her, making her tremble.

He kisses his way to her pussy lips. At the feeling of his tongue on her, Lux jolts, arching her back up off of the bed. She's touched herself before, but being touched by anyone else is more intense. It's out of her control — unpredictable.

His tongue is hot and wet, licking her entrance at first, in a soft up and down. It's surprisingly gentle, easing her back into relaxation. A rhythmic motion that has her shivering in place, itching for more but unable to articulate herself.

He's working her up. Taking his time before carefully moving just the slightest bit higher. Lux shudders at the new wave of intensity, a fire in her gut, embers behind her eyelids. She hears her own breath coming out in short pants. His hands grip her thighs, fingers squeezing into them encouragingly.

It isn't long before she's lost in the feeling, grinding up into him, legs flexing helplessly where he holds them. There's a meditative relaxation to this, a soothing undercurrent to the electricity.

When he draws back, Lux hears herself keen pathetically. It's like floating, then being suddenly plunged beneath the water. She can't bear to look at him like this, making these sounds, and tips her head back, pointedly staring at the wall.

His hand shifts, groping its way down her thigh. Then it's his finger, spit-slick and pressing inside her. She shudders again, but this is a completely different sensation.

The heat of her body is cooling as it reels from one sensation to the next, as Sylas thrusts his finger in and out of her, slow and gentle and good — but _unsatisfying_.

Shame washes over her for thinking this. The desire to _ask_ for anything calls her purity into question, and her world has already been spinning in reverse since the day they met. She can't handle it happening again for every little thing he does to her. The spike of distress has her lifting her hips up to him, pleading wordless for more friction, for a distraction. For that pleasant mindlessness that she _knows_ he can grant her.

"Sweetheart," Sylas murmurs. It staves away her embarrassment with another kind, a more pleasant kind; she feels herself squeeze around his fingers.

She hears him shift, then his mouth is back on her. His tongue dancing from slit to clit as his fingers keep pace, pushing deep inside her and curling and, oh Gods, Lux thinks. She was wrong to think this wasn't satisfying. With his tongue and fingers moving against her together, it is, it _is._

It's mind-numbing, soul cleansing, world-destroying. Just feeling Sylas fingering her, feeling his tongue lapping her up with a greedy sort of patience. She focuses on his heavy breath and the occasional throaty moan that slips from him and warms her cunt. She thinks about his voice and the sounds he makes that mean that _he_ is enjoying this too, and her hips buck upwards.

He hums as if pleased by her movements, and the vibration flows through them both, tearing another weak whimper from Lux's lips. She can't think; her mind is blank, careening towards something bright and uncertain.

"Come for me," he says, mouth moving against her.

A part of her wants to say she can't, doesn't know how, and wants to spiral anxiously into panic and shame, but it all goes white when he sucks. Light and gentle, but enough to stop the world completely, enough to make a harmless glow spill from her palms as her fingers bury in his hair. Her hips push up into him, unbidden, chasing the feeling, unwilling to risk it being taken from her. It's a sparking fire inside her core, her whole body burning up, lightning in all her veins.

She doesn't know what does it. Maybe just the consistency, a slow build up that takes its time, encouraging her down a path that glows brighter and brighter until it's too late. Before she realizes, she's over the edge of it, coming.

She shudders against him, pulling his hair and feeling the vibrations of his groan against her. She arches off the bed, grinds against him, feels the rhythmic pressure of his tongue, and of his fingers as they keep fucking in and out of her while she rides out the orgasm. Aftershocks of it spread through her belly, sending her into weak shudders.

His fingers slow, but don't stop. She steals a look down, past her heaving chest. His eyes are dark when he draws away from her, his gaze shadowed with a desperation as he presses hurried kisses to her thighs, to her stomach, to her fingertips when they fall from his hair.

He hunches over her, and she watches him reach to tug his pants down. She watches his hand circle around his hard cock. His brows furrow, sweat on his forehead and face flushed but no longer just from drink.

His eyes trace hungrily up and down her body, lingering on his fingers, still inside of her. He strokes himself quickly, already worked up past his limits. There's something about this, more than his lingering touch that has Lux shivering with renewed want. It's the desperation of it, the frantic rush; a loss of composure that she never sees from him.

It's knowing that he got off on doing this to her — that he'd been brought so close to the edge without even being touched.

Lux touches his arms, tracing up and down them lazily in her own post-orgasm haze. She feels exhausted, in part from this, in part from the day. A part of her wishes she had the energy to ask for more, because she thinks she could, now. She thinks the words could come to her.

It's only a moment before Sylas comes, his body lurching further over her, still held up by one arm.

The moment is long, both of them breathing heavily, staring at each other in the otherwise quiet room.

Her hands drift to his face, fingers barely touching his jaw but still guiding him as he draws over her obediently. For blissful moments that flow from one to the next so seamlessly that Lux cannot even count them, her mind is calm and empty. Sylas kisses her with a gentleness and a greed both at once, and Lux takes solace in how unable she is to think straight.

***

Lux has been waking up beside Sylas for some time, now. Even before they reached the North. In the caves, they had shared a bedroll when she stayed.

So it should not be such a sudden, jolting realization to wake beside him.

He is faced away from her to keep his shackles off the bed, and the chains drape over its edge and onto the floor. With her chest pressed to his back and her knees bent behind his, Lux's arm is draped over his naked torso, her palm against his abdomen.

The previous night does not come to her like a forgotten memory. It is in her mind from the moment she wakes, blooming vividly behind her eyes and between her legs. Lux shifts in place before drawing back from Sylas.

A part of her would like to blame the wine they had been so graciously served, but she knows it was only a small factor. Even less of one, when it had come to her own decisions.

She had told him no and she had intended to stand by it. She _still_ stands by it.

Because Lux know that Sylas is going to wake, and he is going to act as if nothing important had happened. As if this was nothing of note, and as if he had not gone against her wishes. As if she had not meant those wishes to begin with. Sylas is a selfish man like that, unwilling to accept the things he does not believe in — and he does not believe that she does not want him.

He isn't wrong, of course, but even so.

She doesn't want to be used out of convenience. She does not want him thinking he can just fuck her whenever he pleases. Even if, a voice in her mind points out, he had not actually fucked her. As much as she had wanted it in the moment, what Sylas had done was less about his own gratification.

No, Lux argues with herself. He had certainly enjoyed himself too much to classify it as in any way selfless.

She is mulling this over so intensely that she does not notice the shift in Sylas's breathing as he wakes until after he has spoken.

"You're tense," he says, voice gravelly with sleep.

She stares at the nape of his neck, beneath his messy hair. "Just thinking," she says.

"I'll relax you again," his tone is vaguely smug, and he stretches, beginning to roll onto his back.

Lux stands up, internally wincing that she has to cross the room to retrieve her underwear. The cold settles into her body as soon as she has left the blankets, and she tries not to show what a hurry she is in to get dressed.

There is tension in the beat of silence, and when she turns back to face him, Sylas is sitting up in the bed, watching her. She needs to make it clear that this should not have happened, and will not happen again.

"No," Lux says, firmly. "You won't."

Sylas's expression is guarded, and she can't puzzle out what he is guarding. She knows this does not hurt him the way it hurts her; it strikes her as unfair that he put her in this position to begin with.

Even so, she offers more gently, like a joke to test the waters, "You're a man who only brings me stress. As always."

He laughs, and her shoulders relax. "I see. How do you manage it all?"

"By plotting my revenge, of course."

Neither of them call out the other any further. They dress, and they bicker over nonsense, and they discuss politics as they always do. Lux is pleased to have diffused the situation.

Even if the sensations return to her in vivid pulses throughout the day, always shadowed by heartache.

He doesn't love her, she reminds herself. Again, and again. As many times as it takes, she will remind herself. Sylas is not one for subtlety. If he wanted her to believe otherwise, he would say so.

***

Making plans — real, concrete plans — is something that takes time. Hours on end, spent under what still feels like an intense scrutiny. Hours spent clarifying language and concepts that should hardly have been a foot note, hours spent smoothing conflicts and navigating a foreign culture.

Even the lapses into silence are no true reprieve from the tension. They are only moments where Lux bites her tongue to keep judgment from passing her lips. These allies of theirs are not so different from Noxians, she is beginning to think. Cut from the same ideations and ideals.

At least with the people of the North she understands. To cultivate a life out of the ice like they have requires a certain kind of brute strength. They honor their scars, they worship their wars, because these are the things that keep them alive. In a frigid world of survival of the fittest, they have no interest in allying with those they see no benefit with.

That's why she and Sylas need to make it worth their while. She is not under the illusion that a potential trade route means much to them. Even the land treaty is only officiating what they already believe to be true. It's going to be a debt of riches and resources.

The meetings are giving her migraines, and she cannot decide if Sylas is more help or hindrance.

He shares priorities with the tribe. His power lust is not subdued and swallowed like Lux's. They respect his bold words and how easily he offers up what will soon be his. Each time, Lux watches him sidelong, and each night when they return to their room she has to try to reign him in for the next day's talks.

When they return to their room after one of such long, long meetings, Lux's head is still swimming with strategy. In her mind she is setting troops in place, remembering the particular architecture of border cities, and thinking of the vantage points in familiar forests. Her head pulses a protest at being overworked, and she is so focused on this that she nearly bumps into the large basin that's been set in their room.

She feels the heat radiating off of it even without touching — in the mountains, Lux is always conscious of small sources of warmth. Her own breath, Sylas's body beside hers, and even cooling coals in the mornings.

"Another luxury," Sylas murmurs, close behind her.

Lux stares into the water of the tub, watching the steam rise off of it. She glances over her shoulder, cracking a small smile. "Do you think the luxury is for them or us? It's been far too long since we properly bathed."

Sylas scoffs, playing along. "You think we've offended them? It wasn't _my_ choice to go without."

"I'm taking this as generosity," Lux decides.

But she does not move to bathe. It's a show of kindness that certainly makes the day's stress easier to move past. It brings its own, different stress with it.

Sylas has respected her wishes for all these days, but there is still a part of her that cannot stop thrumming with anticipation. It is the part of her that can't ask for what she wants, and her own impatience could drive her crazy. She knows this is foolish. It was her who told him no. She wants to stand by this — she does not want to concede her inherent worth just for a one-sided love.

He places his hands on her waist. It's such a gentle touch, but there's a weight to it in his shackles. He can't help that.

Lux does not doubt that Sylas cares for her. But she knows that he is not in love with her. If he was, surely he would show it in the ways she is certain her own affections are obvious.

His fingers slip beneath her shirt and lift.

"I can do it myself," she says, her only resistance. She raises her arms to help him peel her shirt over her head, and feels his chains fall lightly against her side as he follows the motion. The cold metal of the chains sends a shiver up her spine, and the idea of a hot bath after so long steals all the embarrassment of this moment away from her.

She steps away from him to undress herself the rest of the way, only sparing him a quick glance, lest the embarrassment find its way back.

Stepping into the hot water is briefly mind-numbing. A safe-haven from her anxieties, and from plotting and planning. She sits down, letting herself sink down to her shoulders. She wishes the reprieve lasted longer than a moment, longer than it takes her to settle, before her mind is working over scenarios like a chessboard.

She is surprised that rather than undressing and joining her right away, Sylas stays behind her a moment longer. He sweeps her hair from the back of her neck, laying it over the outside of the basin. Then his hands hold her shoulders, his grip firm and his thumbs digging in.

It is not a massage at first; just his thumbs pressed to a particular spot of her shoulders that still makes her arch her spine and sit up straight — a spot that feels a bit ticklish, but pleasant.

Then his hands shift, his fingers moving and pushing in rotations. Lux lets out a contented sigh without meaning to. She enjoys it for what feels like no time at all, yet she I sure is far too long.

"Not that I don't appreciate this," she says, "but you need the bath just as much as I do. There's room for two."

Barely, Lux admits silently, but it still seems the more efficient route.

Lux tells herself that she closes her eyes in relaxation as Sylas undresses — as he circles to the other side of the tub and climbs in across from her. She opens them again when she feels him nudge against her. With the both of them, their legs can't stretch out freely. She has to place her feet at either side of him, her ankles resting over his thighs.

Despite herself, Lux laughs, and this alleviates her nerves.

She feels Sylas exhale the same way she had, and feels pleased to know that he is getting to enjoy this. Relaxing in a hot bath has been something Lux has always taken for granted, but now she imagines going home to her kingdom and luxuriating in the bath every single day, before retiring to her soft bedding behind swaths of lacy canopy.

She wants Sylas to be there waiting for her. She wants him to get these things — every luxury she had taken for granted all her life. Only this time without the fear she'd always held onto of having it all taken away from her in an instant.

She wants to grant him what she's had. She wants the promise that what's hers won't be taken away.

But in order to get this, in order to give them both - and all the other Demacian mages, too - what they so deserve…

"We can't concede everything to them," Lux reminds him, her mind realigning to the plans ahead.

Sylas makes an affirmative sound, pointedly ignoring that she is scolding him for how easily he promises to do just this.

Lux frowns. "A redistribution within our walls requires that _to_ redistribute. The royals may not need all that they have, but there is some need for funds, for wealth. To spend for the betterment of the kingdom and its people."

"That is exactly what we are doing," Sylas argues, not unkindly, though perhaps impatient. "Spending excess wealth for the sake of the people. _Our_ people."

It's hard to argue with dreamy claims like this, Lux thinks. Idealistic, in their own way.

She sighs and sinks down lower in the water. "It isn't so simple. I know you want to _take_ from those in power, but that puts us at disadvantage when _I_ am the one in power."

She expects more of an argument from him, but instead his hands wrap gently around one of her legs, massaging her calf. "You," he repeats, with a scoff that would sound offended were it not for the intimacy of his touch.

"We," Lux amends, half-heartedly. Her eyes trace the swooping arc of his chains, dipped into water then out, draped over the edge of the basin as easily as her hair.

Sylas's eyes slice over, following her gaze, then returning to watching her face.

"I'm not a restraint you need to manage around," Sylas says. "I'm not the shackles you must maneuver with like an unavoidable inconvenience." 

Lux startles. She draws her leg back from him as if to withdraw from conflict, but he only switches to massage the other, and she can't bring herself to draw back a second time from something that feels so nice.

"I know," she says.

He shakes his head, and now his eyes seem to be staring past her, as if he cannot look away, but cannot look at her either. "You don't. You speak no differently than they do, ready to cast aside the voice of the undesirable."

"You can't say I'm casting you aside," Lux snaps, defensive. "Not after everything I've done to help you."

"You're helping both of us," Sylas says. He looks as if the words leave a sour taste in his mouth. "I'm not a charity case you've deigned to grace."

There is a long silence between them, Lux's stomach churning with discomfort. He isn't wrong. It's just a way of putting blame and weight on someone else's shoulders, acting like she's being forced or dragged along unwillingly when it's something she wants for herself. It's easier to swallow her actions and their consequences with someone else to blame.

These talks with the tribe have felt like it is her against them — with Sylas included in 'them.'

What good is it to say she is on his side and think of him like another obstacle to be overcome? What logic is there in thinking of him as her own shackles to maneuver around while wanting more from him than he can give her?

Lux exhales. "You're right," she says, eventually. Sylas looks surprised to hear it, like he hadn't thought she would concede so easily.

She should return the favor, Lux thinks, and lets her hands feel out the shape of his calves. She's sure her touch is not nearly as soothing as his, light as it is, uncertain as she feels, but he offers her a small smile.

"We need to work together," Lux says. "But this means you need to listen to me."

"I always do," Sylas says, as if this is true, and Lux loves him too dearly to call out the blatant lie. He lets her flaws slide the same way she will let his. "You need to listen to me in return."

"I do," Lux agrees.

There is value to Sylas's methods and beliefs. It's a delicate balance - if nothing else, she should be grateful for the assistance navigating it. She can't keep up these plans acting as if her own choices are final, as if her own ideas are the only ones that matter.

They discuss wealth distribution for far too long, with idly wandering hands that neither acknowledge. It is a debate that is necessary, yet only spares Lux of a headache because it is happening in the comfort of a hot bathtub.

In the end, the conversation stalls out with her heavy eyelids.

Lux exhales, tipping her head back and feeling the steam climb her throat.

Sylas is watching her more closely, when she looks back. His eyes follow her like he couldn't tear them away if he tried. His hands are wandering higher up her legs, and it feels so nice that Lux can't fathom stopping him.

"Come here, Little Light," Sylas says.

Lux looks across the tub at him, arching an eyebrow with suspicion.

He laughs softly, and Lux watches the movement of his rising and falling chest. "It isn't a trick," he says. There is a darkness in his eyes when he looks at her, a desire that she does not understand for how suddenly it has come. She has been as exposed as he is and for just as long without him looking at her quite like that.

"Well?" He prompts.

"There's nowhere for me to come," Lux points out, forcing her tone to stay light and steady. The tub is too small to sit anywhere but across from him. Or on top of him.

Sylas just stares at her intently, lips tugging into a smirk, and it is only then that Lux processes the offer.

"Oh," she says, face hot, and vows to choose her own words more carefully.

"I'll make it good for you," he promises, disgustingly confident, but with a sincerity that Lux can't overlook.

Yet she doesn't know how to regain her dignity besides mocking him, and so she scoffs as if in disbelief. "Oh? Not concerned you're out of practice?"

It's a low-blow, but he takes it with another laugh. "If you need a demonstration…"

He comes to her, breaking the moment from the safety of words and dragging it into reality. The water moves around him as he leans forward, as he rests one hand at her side — the other gently pressing between her thighs. His chains aren't so heavy in the water, draping over her leg in a way that she almost finds comforting, like the grounding weight of a thick blanket.

His shadow casts over her, his figure large and protective like a shield. His eyes are too intent; she has to turn her head away, and for a moment they both stay there, as if time has halted. His hand doesn't move; she feels the heat of him breathing so close to her.

That impatient anticipation thrums through her, sending a shiver up her spine. For a moment she dreads that the moment will end, dreads him adhering to her own words — but Lux knows Sylas better than anyone. And in return, Sylas knows her better than anyone.

She spreads her legs open for him.

Sylas lets out a quiet, "Mm." An approval that sets her cheeks on fire and makes her clench her eyes shut. The way he touches her is surprisingly gentle, a patient exploration of sorts. His middle finger rubs between her lips in a slow up and down, not pressing inside her yet.

Something about it is rough, despite the care of his movements. It's the water, Lux realizes distantly, but it feels good. That roughness is right on the cusp of something blinding, that roughness means that she can feel every spark his touch sends through her. She is aware of every crook of his fingers.

She slouches down slightly to offer a better angle, to goad him into pushing inside her, because she remembers — _vividly,_ she remembers — the feeling of his fingers stretching her open and fucking into her.

His beard scratches against her cheek lightly as he leans in, kissing along her jaw as one finger obediently slips inside. His motions are so slow and patient, accounting for the water friction. It's all the more tantalizing when all she can think of is the frantic end of that night. She can feel the unsteady rise and fall of his breath, and knows that the impatience is in both of them, barely held back.

She writhes against him; the blunt edges of his shackles dig against her inner thighs. He is an all-consuming presence; his shallow breath by her ear is all she can hear. She is vaguely aware of the ripple of water around their bodies, aware of his hardness pressed against her leg, aware of every burning inch of both their skin as he slowly, gently works her open.

She wants to say something, but doesn't know what. Doesn't know how to ask for what she wants — can't _bring_ herself to ask for it. Instead she wraps her arms over his shoulders, pulling him closer to her. Her hips move with his hand, and briefly she is lost in riding out this feeling, briefly her mind lets go of everything else.

"Let me," Sylas says, and Lux cannot tell if it is an order, a request, or a question. She doesn't care which it is. She nods.

When she turns to face him, he captures her lips in an instant. The warm of his mouth is a comfort as his lips part, as their breath mingles together heavily. He pulls away from her too soon. Lux feels cold all over, feels exposed and dizzy and vaguely confused, like her mind can't quite piece together what's happening around her. The speed she usually thinks at is slowed to a crawl, the ever-present barrage of thoughts in her head is dulled soft and harmless.

His hands on her waist are a comforting guidance. He draws her up with him, turns her around and bends her over with a gentle touch, and Lux follows the commands with ease. It's nice to know what to do. Nice to be told, to be shown. Her arms rest on the edge of the basin, crossed one over the other to pillow her face. The water pools at her thighs.

His body drapes over her back. One arm wraps around her, as if to hold her in place — her mind is full of unsaid assurances that she would never move from where he puts her. She can't say them, can't say anything, her mouth dropping open against her arms as his other hand comes to finger her again. It's harder this time, faster than when she'd been under water. Her own slick wets his fingers, eases his pace, and Lux moans weakly against her arms.

She keens when he draws away from him, then lets out a contented sigh as his cock presses against her entrance. It's bigger - hotter than his fingers, and the feeling of it sinking into her inch by inch is like having the deepest itch scratched.

He buries deep inside of Lux, and the satisfaction of it is overwhelming. His hands grope at her, one snaking around to cup her breast, the other pulling her back against him with a palm on her stomach. They stay this way, stilled with him bottomed out inside her. There is a part of her that wants to stay this way forever. There is a part of her that can't stand another second of stillness.

He curses under his breath. Lux shifts in place, instinctively pushing back against him, and hears the way his breath stutters, feels his hands twitch where they hold her.

"Wait," he mutters, sounding strained.

He only makes her wait a moment longer before he straightens up. She misses the warmth of his chest over her back, but the thought flies from her head when he pulls almost all the way out. When he pushes back in with a long, drawn out movement. His thrusts are slow, and each one feels as if it will push her past her limits.

She buries her face in her arms — each time he sinks in, it pushes a moan from her. His hands move to her hips to guide her, pulling her towards him as he thrusts in, gently guiding her forward when he draws back. It's so slow, right on the cusp of what she needs, so _close_ that her legs tremble. She feels tears welling at the corners of her eyes and is relieved to be facing away, to not have to face how embarrassing it is to be so worked up, to be so in want of _more_.

But that's what's good about it. She can't think, doesn't _have_ to think, couldn't think if she _wanted_ to; all she is conscious of is his body and hers. Of the steady splash of water around her thighs, of the size of his cock dragging in and out of her. Of the gravelly sound of his breath behind her, and of his hands gripping her hips.

The only thing that breaks through the haze of building pleasure is his voice, a low murmur so quiet that she's almost not sure it was for her to hear, "That's it, sweetheart."

She feels herself clench around him, feels his movements stutter with a cut-off grunt.

Lux remembers the other night; remembers crashing over that edge into her orgasm and remembers the lust in his eyes when he had touched himself so frantically. She wants that — wants to come, wants to make _him_ come, and the slow pace feels like climbing a staircase with no end to it.

"Come on," Lux mutters. She pushes back against him, against his grip and his torturously slow pace. The thought of saying what she wants is mortifying. This is as much as she can manage.

It's enough. His hands squeeze at her hips in recognition, she feels his pace quicken, feels the way his grip stays tight but no longer keeps her from moving back to match his pace. Her lips are moving against her arm, silent mutterings in the shape of the things she'd like to be able to say someday, when she is braver. It feels inconceivable, in this moment, that they won't be together like this forever. That she won't grow braver and braver in their infinite life together.

The fire inside her is glowing white-hot as he fucks into her, as he lets her push back against him and chase after the glow. He is leaning over her again, his breath closer to her ear, the rasp of it making her shudder. It's that sound, she thinks, that pushes her over the edge. That sends her crashing from the sky with a choked moan, that makes her whole mind blissfully blank.

She comes, Sylas not stilling for her, fucking her through the orgasm. Her legs shake, then go out from under her. Effortlessly, his grip holds her up, holds her in place against him. For just a moment the pace is harsh, but all the more satisfying for it. Sylas comes, pulling her flush against him, his chest heaving dramatically against her back, and his lips on her shoulder.

They are left trembling, shivering in the aftermath. Sylas exhales, and when he sits down he brings her with him, back into the lukewarm water, sitting on his lap. She slides off of his length, too tired to feel awkward about this, then shifts slightly to sit sideways across his lap. Carefully, she rests her head on his shoulder.

Lux knows that this is all going to come crashing down on her again. But for a moment, she doesn't let it. For a moment, she is in blissful control of her own emptied mind, and dismisses the thoughts when they threaten to impose.

She can't remember the last time she felt this relaxed. She doesn't know if she ever has in her life.

***

Lux still feels in a haze as they lay down for sleep. She knows that they will begin their travel back to Demacia soon. Knows that she will need to learn travel routes and endure the stress of an army who travel at her command. Knows that — a thousand other things that she can't quite grasp from beneath the warm of the blanket as Sylas pulls it up over her shoulders.

"In the morning I'm going to be very cross with you," she informs him, her voice not carrying any of the intensity the words deserve. She curls against his chest when he lifts an arm for her. Feels his heart beat a steady rhythm, feels the rise and fall of his breath.

"You won't," he says, the weight of his arm settling over her hip. "In the morning you'll delude yourself into believing you should be ashamed of yourself, or that I don't love you."  
  
It takes her a moment to process this through the fog.

The world realigns, as if it had been just slightly askew, and now the lines and colors sync up.

Lux closes her eyes comfortably, and murmurs, "Those sound like perfectly good reasons to feel cross."

"They're delusions, Little Light."

"Then I'll be cross you never said it before."

He is quiet. She is sure were it not for the comfortable exhaustion, that wall between them would emerge again. That barrier he puts up when she's said something out of line, yet something he refuses to argue with.

After a pause too long to dismiss, he teases, "That you're beautiful?"  
  
"I'll not fall for this," she says, knowing he expects her to demand a clear confession. They are skirting around it, not in denial now, but in game. No, perhaps still a manifest of denial. Lux says, "I expect to hear so three times a day from now on."

"The vanity of Demacians knows no bounds, I suppose. You'll be a demanding queen."

She laughs softly; feels him chuckle, too. 

He takes another moment, his hesitation foreign in how rare it is from him. Then concedes: "I've never had reason for insincerity. Not with you."

"Then you should have said so," Lux says. "You shouldn't have made me draw my own conclusions. I don't like being made to look foolish."

If he is apologetic, she cannot feel it by their embrace. Cannot hear it in the way he breathes, in the silence between them.

Lux buries her face in his chest for a self-indulgent moment. She whispers, "I love you," and feels him squeeze her tighter for just one moment. Plainly said — not for the first time. There is still a comfort in the words being expelled from her. A finality to it.

Sylas does not say it back, but this time Lux understands well enough.

She can feel sleep reaching for her, and for once does not want to fight it. For once her mind does not feel as if it is begging her for time to think a hundred more thoughts.

***

With the tribe, their journey back down the mountain is not nearly so perilous.

It is cold enough that Lux longs for the blankets, but she knows that even the return to warmth she daydreams of would not be sustainable. She would not be able to enjoy their kindness without offering something in return forever, and knows that their way of life is not something she would ever adapt to.

But they know how to read the wind and the air, and know when the set up camp. Their supplies are made to block the snow, not cobbled together from a fair-weather kingdom. Every trick there is to surviving these mountains, they know it, and it makes Lux wonder if trade between them is more than just a distant dream, after all.

They take the first Demacian outpost with ease. A military base set up near the North. Barely manned at all and with no warning of what was to come.

Lux knows it will not be so easy, the closer they get to the capitol. To the kingdom walls.

Sure enough, they are met with far more soldiers than Lux has ever seen in one place. They have had warning, and time to prepare for the approach. Miles from the walls, they block the path with formidable strength. What the lack in power, what they lack in _magic,_ they make up for in a precise organization that the army of the North lacks.

Lux remembers from her history books that wars are fought in inches. That months can be spent pushing an army back near imperceptibly.

And so she readies herself to be embedded here with Sylas at her side. To stand their ground and push closer, closer, closer to the walls until they take what is theirs.

***

Their army grows.

Perhaps something that the Demacian military did not account for.

When it is no longer a matter of secrecy, no longer an uprising only whispered about within the walls but spoken of with fear — there are those who would see it as hope. Those would break free of the walls and join their side, just for the chance to break back into them. For the chance to break them _down_.

Mages come to Lux with nothing but the clothes on their backs; Lux wishes she could offer them more than war orders, but she has nothing to spare. Keeping everyone fed is its own war, fought alongside the actual battle.

Unfamiliar faces all recognize her — the princess-to-be. They recognize Sylas not for his face, but his name. The king slayer. He does not bother to correct them. They do not seem to dislike the lie.

Sometimes — sometimes there are familiar faces.

A soldier, here and there. With guilt in their eyes, but the most recent Demacian orders on their lips. With magic inside them, buried so deep that sometimes they cannot even call upon it when they need it. But they still not what side fights for them, and so Lux welcomes them with open arms.

Ezreal's arrival is a strange sort of comfort. Lux knows he will not fight with them, but he embraces her with such relief, and looks at her with such starry-eyes that Lux counts the moral support as perfectly impactful.

He doesn't bring Zoe with him, and evades the topic with an avoidant gaze.

But sometimes he brings other mages. Exiles he's happened on in his travels, who eagerly join the ranks.

The musician startles Lux the most, if she is honest. A familiar face in a way that Lux had not expected.

Sona Buvelle is not suited to war. But even Sylas does not complain about sparing rations for her. She does not fight, does not speak — but her music soothes the wounded. Her magic helps them get back on their feet.

Inch by inch, they push the Demacian army back.

Inch by inch, the push forward.

***

The summons to the castle could be a trap.

Lux has been warned, but even so she finds herself walking familiar-unfamiliar halls. Her boots click on the marble floors. Overhead, a mural of sunlight forces its way past clouds. The walls hang with portrait after portrait of the dead men who upheld these unjust laws.

Sylas is pure tension; all the lines of his body are harsh as if he is ready to attack at any moment.

The guards that escort them would be on edge either way, Lux is sure. Their anxiousness feeds off one another; she can feel the swirl of fear emanating off of everyone around her. It's almost dizzying, but she needs to retain clarity.

In the throne room, Jarvan IV is waiting for them.

It is no surprise that he does not greet her with a smile. There is no need for formalities or keeping up appearances, no matter how many guards line the room. No more secrets.

"I told you not to come back."

"But," Jarvan says, his tone unreadable. "I know that _you_ didn't kill my father."

"You say it like the truth is some great kindness you bestow upon us," Sylas says.

"It is," Jarvan says plainly. "You've brought an army to my door and I give you audience. Even you must understand the concessions I make for an old friend."

"Then what of Auntie?" Lux asks. She steels herself, refusing to let her resolve waver. "I would think she would want to be present. All these guards are. This clearly isn't a private affair. Surely you would want your advisor by your side in this."

"Prison, for the time being."

His honesty startles her; she can't help but frown. It isn't a comfort. It should be.

"While we decide what to do with her. Exile or a more permanent sentence. The kingdom moves without you, Lux. I wasn't in stasis while you disappeared into the snow."

"You boast for having imprisoned a murderer," Sylas comments. "I'm unimpressed."

Lux sees Jarvan's frown deepen. For a flash, she regrets bringing Sylas along, but she swallows that feeling down. He isn't wrong. Her own desire to minimize conflict could only hurt them, were she left to face this alone.

"I might be more amenable to your input were you not laying siege to my kingdom."

"You have no right to call it that," Lux interjects. "Not when we are Demacians too, not when we are fighting for our own freedom within our land. You must _know_ how many of our forces came from inside — how many of them led harmless lives."

Jarvan hesitates.

Lux can see it in his eyes, behind the façade of power and certainty.

"You said that you would consider my plan," she says.

Another long moment passes before he concedes, "I did." He sighs, then, as if it is some terrible burden to have to hear her out at all. Lux can feel Sylas seething beside her, but the feeling is dulled in her own gut.

"Then here's what I think. You're right to fear magic, but only when you've made an enemy of it. Our only desire is to cease the oppression of mages. We're winning this war, and we can push your army back behind the walls no matter how long it takes. We can march through the streets and storm this castle together. We can kill you, and we have reason to."

Every guard in the room has their weapon drawn. Sylas has stepped in front of her, useless as it may be when they're surrounded from every side.

"But I don't want to," Lux says, softer. "I don't want to hurt anyone."

"Your army has killed our men," Jarvan snaps.

"And your mageseekers have killed ours for years," Sylas retorts. "Tell me, is the noble-woman who led them in a cell like mine? Is she being sliced open to search for what cruelty she's made of?"

She knows it isn't so, but just the idea makes Lux nauseous.

"I won't apologize for a necessary war until it's over," she says. Sylas shoots her a glare, unsettled by the idea of an apology even after it's done.

"I had thought of you as an exception, you know. Harmless, despite your affliction."

This time Lux is the one to seethe. There is an impulse to defend herself against the accusation — to insist that she _is_ harmless. That she was forced to break from her nature.

But what she instead settles on is this: "No one is harmless. No one should _have_ to be harmless, no one should be _expected_ to be harmless. Auntie Tianna is proof enough that threats don't come from any one origin. They come from a want of power."

Jarvan just looks tired. "Is that what you want, then? Power?"

"Everyone should have power," Sylas says. "You took the power of even living a civilian's life from mages, it should be no shock that they desire the power to live an ordinary life. Frame it how you want."

"We shouldn't have to fight tooth and nail for an ordinary life," Lux says. "But we will, if we're forced. If you force us."

Jarvan nearly interrupts her, raising his voice. "Is that your plan, then? You wanted me to hear that you're willing to fight, as if that wasn't already clear?"

Lux shakes her head. "You told me once that you were going to do something to make Demacia better. For everyone. That you wanted to be remembered for doing something good."

He does not so much as nod along with her; just waits for the rest with an impassive expression. His guard steps closer to him in silence.

She takes a deep breath and looks him in the eye. It's not a demand to be taken lightly.

"So abdicate the throne to me."

The silence is deafening, as if every guard has had their breath stolen away. The air in the throne room is still, and for a moment Lux almost expects him to laugh away her command for how unheard of it would be. She expects derision or fury, expects to be thrown out from the room immediately.

Jarvan still just looks deeply exhausted.

"Put to rest the conflict between our families before it can brew," Lux murmurs, unafraid of going unheard for how quiet the room stays for her. "The monarchy killed your father, and if you don't step down you'll be remembered as the prince who stood the wrong ground before he was killed. If you step down from the throne, you'll be remembered as _kind_. You can marry who you want. You can sleep with both eyes closed. You can allow an era to end with peaceful transition."

He does not even respond to her.

With one gesture of his hand, the guards are edging them out of the throne room and back into the hall.

Despite the tension of the moment, Sylas looks at her, eyes scrunched up like he wants to laugh.

"It was worth trying," he says, tone too derisive for her to believe him.

She feels as tired as Jarvan had looked. "He wouldn't have seen us if he hadn't wanted to hear me out. Maybe he hoped I would lose resolve if I saw him."

There is a crowd roaring when they step outside. Guards line the street, keeping civilians away — and Lux thinks this is funny. This is something Jarvan had arranged so that they could speak peacefully, so that they could try to come to a solution together. This was something he had done to protect _Lux_. Not these civilians, but Lux.

Sylas holds her hand, and she offers him a small smile. It strikes her as a childish thing. Surreal in its simplicity, for all the chaos surrounding them. A failed meeting with the prince, before they pass through the streets unharmed, back to their side of the war still raging.

"Lux!"

Her head whips around as one familiar voice rises over the others.

Her brother, in civilian's clothes, pushed to the front of the crowd. Lux takes one step, ready to rush closer to him, but a guard blocks her path with a pointed lowering of his spear.

He is probably under investigation, Lux realizes. Probably stripped of his military role, even if only temporary.

Because of their aunt?

Or because Jarvan didn't want to send him to face his own sister in battle?

All she can do is shoot Garen a helpless look over her shoulder as she passes by, hyper-aware of the bags under his eyes with only a glance. She longs to hold his hand again, and squeezes Sylas's hand tighter.

It's wishful thinking, and Lux knows better than to lean too far into it, but even so she finds some glimmer of hope.

"Maybe Jarvan hoped he would lose his own resolve if he saw me."

***

For ten more days, the war presses on. A part of Lux is surprised that the tribe from the North carries on for so long. That they do not pack their bags and announce that it is too much trouble, too indefinite.

But small things can hold great weight.

They listen to Sona's music, and they fight again each day.

On the eleventh day, Jarvan summons them again.

The fighting stalls in her absence, this time. Lux does not know what this means. Both sides halt, and when she returns, they resume again. The meeting goes much the same as the first.

They argue back and forth, both unwilling to concede to the other. Jarvan will not concede that mages are not dangerous as they crusade against him. Lux and Sylas will not concede that they do not deserve their home in Demacia.

Sylas brings up reminder after reminder of each cruelty he has had to swallow, and each time Lux and Jarvan both grimace in the same way. This is what gives Lux hope. That Jarvan cannot stand to hear of the atrocities, that he recognizes them as unjust, whether he will say it or not.

But that hope is small. What good is his dismay if he won't stop it from happening to others?

Another meeting, a week later.  
  
Then another, and another.

Enough, Lux decides. The resolve settles in her even before she steps into the throne room — to see Garen standing by Jarvan's side. Still in plainclothes, looking somewhat out of place.

Her brother gives a glance to Jarvan, and receives a nod of permission before he makes his way down the steps.

He wraps Lux in a tight embrace, squeezing her so tightly that it's almost painful. She squeezes back, feeling the slight tremble of his shoulders and holding him there to allow him to regain his composure before he draws back.

"Stupid girl," Garen whispers, with a gentleness in his voice that Lux cannot parse.

She steels herself. She is not going to waver just because her brother is here, surely brought out just to weaken her. She takes a look at Sylas, eyes narrowed at Garen, and finds it impossible to imagine this ruse working. Jarvan must take her for more sentimental than she is.

There is silence in the throne room. An uncomfortable hush over the guards — always silent, but today with an apprehension that sets Lux on edge.

She opens her mouth to ask if this is some kind of trick, but Jarvan stands and she closes it again.

"I've prepared the paperwork," he says, voice raw as if he's been without sleep for weeks. Lux has seen him each week — she could believe it. His voice is stilted as he adds, "And set the date for the first of next month. If that's amenable to you."

The tension won't leave her body, but she feels vaguely as if her soul has.

"What?"

Jarvan exhales. He looks to Garen, who gives him a nod this time, as if their roles of permission are reversed for this decision.

The prince looks to Lux, then to Sylas. "I abdicate the throne."

***

There is grumbling under the breath of the guards in the room. Lux pays them no mind, but knows she will need to keep a close eye on who is allowed near her when the time comes for her to take the throne. She is sure there will be attempts at overthrowing her from those who underestimate her, and from those who stand by the mageseekers even with their imminent disbandment.

The paperwork is long. Tiring to read through. But Lux does so eagerly and attentively.

Jarvan will not retire to the country-side like some shamed, ousted man. He will stay by her side, officially a guard.

Sylas does not hide his distrust of this.

"Posing as your guard would be the easiest way to kill you," he mutters. "Nothing but a clever way to way reclaim the throne."

Lux raises an eyebrow at him. Before Jarvan can protest, she says, "I have no interest in being a martyr."

"This makes martyr of him. Keeping the public aware of him like rubbing salt in the wound."

"There are some perceptions we can't change," Jarvan says.

Lux adds, "But this reinforces that it was his choice. That it wasn't a humiliating defeat or an exiling."

"I do understand the concern, but we have to assert to the public that this was an agreement," Jarvan continues. His eyes remain on the parchment, not looking at either of them any longer. "That this was what I felt was wisest and that I stand by your leadership."

"Do you?" Lux asks, quietly.

His eyes finally meet hers, icy blue and — somehow familiar. He holds out his hand for hers. With distant amusement at the way Sylas looks away as if annoyed, Lux takes Jarvan's hand.

It is not a marriage, anymore, but he holds her hand as if he might slip a ring onto her finger at any moment.

"I do," he says. "I want our families to stay together."

"As it has always been," Lux murmurs, stroking her thumb along the side of his hand.

With her other hand, she reaches for Sylas. In the end, even aspirations of change are tied so closely to nobility. To family lines and connections like these. She is sure he has felt an outsider, the more personal meetings this war began to revolve around. She is sure he will feel like an outsider for a long time.

But she is on his side, and she will keep him in the picture until her dying breath.

Sylas scoffs, but holds her hand without drawing away.

Jarvan says, quietly, "Tianna turned me from my father's will. I want to honor his final wishes and make Demacia a home for all. I don't know if there was ever a path to that where I remain the prince."

"I don't know either," Lux says, just as soft. "It still isn't going to be easy, but we can't be afraid of taking drastic steps."

"I'll protect you," Jarvan promises.

It's should be whiplash from the conversations they've been having until today, but somehow it feels natural. She understands that he was unused to breaking the script. That even opening the door to his cage, it took time for him to step outside of it.

Lux laughs lightly. "I'll protect _you._ "

"Neither of you need protecting," Sylas says, gruffly. Lux cannot say if he means that neither of them will be at risk - which seems a foolish idea - or if he only means that they each can take care of themselves.

***

The coronation is a tedious affair.

Lux stands before a crowd of Demacians — of mages and non-mages alike. Some glare and huff and whisper with animosity. But there are others who look at her with hope and relief in their eyes. Even those without magic who know better, who have always known better.

Jarvan places the crown on her head.

They both give speeches — long, rambling things that take up too much of the day, soaked in too much optimism. Lux thinks they are not realistic enough; that it would be better to be more honest about the difficulties ahead. She vows to be more honest in the future, but understands the importance of first impressions.

They remove Sylas's shackles from his wrists, before he stands by Jarvan's side as a guard. Lux wishes that the moment could make her heart swell, but she knows it is for show, that the momentousness of it is buried in pretense.

After that, her time in the public is done for the day. The crowds disperse and the city moves on as usual. Daily life, for most, unchanged. For mages, Lux is sure it will be slower. Will take time to be unafraid, and rightly so. She will need to write laws in their protection, while civilians adjust. While they learn that their fear was unfounded.

She has to meet several armies, tacticians, and noble families. She keeps her head held high, even when some face her with open distrust.

She has to arrange for supplies and lodging for the soldiers of the North, while they work out the rest of their agreements. The trade has to be upheld, after all.

She has to learn all of the ins and outs of being the princess of Demacia, all shoved into her lap in one day by unwilling hands. All the responsibilities that she had wanted, but given to her with a glare and no patience.

Lux has no choice, then, but to exceed expectations.

Jarvan and Sylas stay by her side every step of the way. It is nearly afternoon the next day when she finally concedes that she needs to sleep before they resume their work.

***

Perhaps, Lux will concede, a part of her was afraid to sleep. Afraid of the attack that Sylas seems to think is coming.

If it is, Lux doubts it will be from Jarvan. She trusts him. After today, after yesterday, she trusts him.

He shows them to two rooms, but does not comment when Sylas does not stop to stay in his own. This is a strange thing. It occurs to Lux that she knows Sylas loves her, now. That this makes them some kind of couple. She hasn't grappled with this being something others could perceive since visiting with Ezreal, and that feels like a lifetime ago.

The shape of their relationship may have to change, Lux realizes. She is a princess. The thought feels surreal.

Jarvan kisses her forehead before he leaves them. Lux hopes to get some rest for himself.

Her room in the castle does not feel like it is her own. After sleeping in a cave, then in the mountains, then tents outside the city — Lux had nearly forgotten the spoils of a nice room. Even so, she knows this room is nearly three times as big as her own was, back home.

Lux has not dared go back home. She doesn't want to face her family, though she knows she will have to in time. They are going to be a part of her public image, whether she wants them to be or not.

She only realizes that she has been standing just inside the doorway, brow furrowed in thought, when Sylas scoops her up in his arms.

"Don't drop me," Lux warns him, mostly because she knows he is just as sleep deprived as she is.

He scoffs, brushing past the canopy and dropping her down onto the bed. She laughs, instantly drowning in blankets. She reaches for him, grasping at his bare wrists and for a moment taking the chance to marvel at this — before pulling him down over herself.

"I'm stressed," she manages to say, between the greedy kisses he steals from her.

"You need sleep, princess."

"We both do," she says, and shoves him lightly until he lays down beside her. She curls up to him, feeling in need of a bath and a massage and — much more than he can give her for the time being.

His hands come to rest over his stomach with an uncertainty. Like he is not used to being able to rest them there comfortably. Lux traces from his wrist to his elbow, up and down with a deep, satisfied interest.

She props herself up on one elbow, her other hand still on his arm. "Are you comfortable?" She asks.

"Terribly," he retorts, and she leans her head down to knock her forehead against him lightly.

"Be serious," she says. "It's hardly a priority, but we could get a new bed if—"

"—I'm comfortable," he interrupts, though there is a hesitance in his tone. "Too comfortable, maybe."

"It will take time to get used to some things," Lux says, softly. "Other things we'll change. You are going to be king one day, you understand."

His eyes slice to her, then back up towards the ceiling. "How presumptuous of you."

She lets her hand slide down his wrist, entwining their fingers. "I know what's mine."

"The crown," he deflects, gaze drifting pointedly further from her.

This gives her pause. Her hand twitches in his, and he finally turns his head to look at her again, curious.

"I'll always be on your side, Sylas," she murmurs. "I would understand if things have changed. You will still _always_ be my counsel, even if not—"

"—You're beautiful," he interrupts her, rolling onto his side to face her.

She humors him with a smile. "I'm not the only person in your life anymore. You're going to meet more and more people. You're going to meet other women. I just want you to understand that you'll still have power. You don't have to love me; it's not your only path to influence."

There is something frustrating in knowing that power is hers to grant to begin with. It's better than before, she knows. Even so, the list of what she wants to change in the world is long, and reminders of it like this churn her stomach.

He raises an eyebrow at her. "Your delusions have returned."

"It's not delusion to think something might change when our circumstances do." She hesitates for a long moment before adding, "I've allowed it to not take priority, because our goals have been more important than anything else. But you've never said it for yourself. That you love me."

"You're beautiful," he says again.

Lux laughs, despite the tension inside her. "Once more?"

"You are such a bright light that I fear living in your shadow," Sylas says, his tone forced even. "That I fear what my world and path would be without you. You are shackles, in your own way."

Lux does not respond, at first. The words do not hurt her or make her feel afraid. She only feels sad, feels her love for him, unwavering.

"I don't want to be," she says, eventually.

"But you are. Everything is chained to you. Freedom, revolution, all of it done by your hands, by your name."

"Did you want the glory?" Lux asks, quiet. "To kill the prince and rule the kingdom yourself? Is that something I've stolen from you?"

"Yes," he says, plainly. His eyes trace her face. "I wanted vengeance. Much more than you've allowed me."

Her chest feels hollow. She understands it. All his anger and bitterness, and the way she has taken over in matters of leadership.

"And so you resent me," she says.

"I should," he says. "Even now, the things you've done are by birthright. A noble name and connections to endear yourself to."

His hand slips from hers, and for a moment it fills her with dread. But he raises it to hold her face in his palm, the touch warm and familiar. She brings both her hands to hold onto his arm, as if to hold him in place and keep him from drawing away from her. She holds onto him where his shackles once were, and his thumb traces over her cheek.

"But instead," Sylas says, "I love you."

Lux feels tears spill from her eyes, startled by the sudden wetness on her cheeks. She can see on Sylas's face that he is surprised too, as he hurriedly wipes them away for her.

"I'm just tired," she rushes out, self-conscious.

The look of vague alarm fades from his face. "Then sleep."

"Will you still be here when I wake up?" She knows the question is nonsensical.

"I'm in a cage of comfort. I'll sleep longer than you."

"You can't. I need you with me."

"I'll force you to wake me so laboriously that you'll be late for each task of the day."

"Sabotage. I see. Your resentment runs deep."

He lets out a low laugh, rolling onto his back. Lux sidles up beside him, tentative until he pulls her closer to him. With no shackles to bite at her hip, the touch is nothing but soft, nothing but warm. Like the bed itself, it is easy to lose herself in the comfort. To let her eyes flutter shut and tuck herself up against Sylas.

She hears his voice drift to her, in the darkness, "I resent a lot of things, Little Light. But you aren't one of them. I am always on your side. This isn't always something I was sure of, but I am, now."

She nods, burying her face against him. They share in each others warmth, exhaustion settling in. Her magic, too, flows freely between them.

**Author's Note:**

> 1) Sometimes I think I'd like to write Sylas/Lux that isn't so horny, but then I'm like hmm but Lux is stressed and the only cure is dick, so. What can you do. It's in the lore, it's not my fault.
> 
> 2) The eternal conflict between "monarchy bad, actually" and "is there anything cooler than a beautiful monarch that rules their kingdom with compassion and power, and has a ragtag team of soldiers and advisors?" 
> 
> 3) I would have liked to spend more time exploring interactions between Sona and Sylas, or Jarvan and Sylas, or even Garen and Sylas… But, um, I'm just tired. I just wanted to be done. I'm sorry. I'm very sorry. "Where was Galio?" Chillin'. Next question. "What was up with Zoe and Ezreal's weird adventure?" That is a story for another day. "Isn't this all too idealistic? Isn't this wildly ooc?" Yes. Leave me alone.


End file.
